
Book -^3 



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SPECIMENS 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS, 



WHO LIVED 



ABOUT THE TIME OF SHAKSPEARE. 



WITH NOTES. 



'J 



< 

en 



NKW EDITION, OOMPLBTK IN ONK VOLUME. 



NEW YORK: 
GEORGE P . PUTNAM. 155 BROADWAY 

1851. 




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r>4agfg. 



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PREFACE 



More than a third part of the following specimens are 
from plays which are to be found only in the British Mu- 
seum and in some scarce private libraries. The rest are 
from Dodsley's and Hawkins's collections, and the works of 
Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger. 

I have chosen wherever I could to give entire scenes, and 
in some instances successive scenes, rather than to string 
together single passages and detached beauties, which I 
have always found wearisome in the reading in selections 
of this nature. 

To every extract is prefixed an explanatory head, suffi- 
cient to make it intelligible with the help of some trifling 
omissions. Where a line or more was obscure, as having 
reference to something that had gone before, which would 
have asked more time to explain than its consequence in 
the scene seemed to deserve, I have had no hesitation in 
leaving the line or passage out. Sometimes where I have 
met with a superfluous character, which seemed to burthen 
without throwing any light upon the scene, I have ventured 
to dismiss it altogether. I have expunged, without cere- 
mony, all that which the writers had better never have 
written, that forms the objection so often repeated to the 
promiscuous reading of Fletcher. Massinger, and some 
others. 

The kind of extracts which 1 have sought alter have been, 
not so much passages of wit and humor, though the old 
plays are rich in such, as scenes of passion, sometimes ot 



PREFACE. 



the deepest quality, interesting situations, serious descrip- 
tions, that which is more nearly allied to poetry than to 
wit, and to tragic rather than comic poetry. The plays 
which I have made choice of have been, with few excep- 
tions, those which treat of human life and manners, rather 
than masques, and Arcadian pastorals, with their train of 
abstractions, unimpassioned deities, passionate mortals, Cla- 
ius, and Medorus, and Amintas, and Amarillis. My leading 
design has been, to illustrate what may be called the moral 
sense of our ancestors. To show in what manner they 
felt, when they placed themselves by the power of imagina- 
tion in trying situations, in the conflicts of duty and passion, 
or the strife of contending duties ; what sort of loves and 
enmities theirs were ; how their griefs were tempered, and 
their full-swoln joys abated : how much of Shakspeare 
shines in the great men his contemporaries, and how far in 
his divine mind and manners he surpassed them and all 
mankind. 

Another object which I bad in making these selections 
was, to bring together the most admired scenes in Fletcher 
and Massinger, in the estimation of the world the only dra- 
matic poets of that age who are entitled to be considered 
after Shakspeare, and to exhibit them in the same volume 
with the more impressive scenes of old Marlowe, Hey- 
wood, Tourneur, Webster, Ford, and others. To show 
what we have slighted, while beyond all proportion we have 
cried up one or two favorite names. 

The specimens are not accompanied with anything in 
the shape of biographical notices.* I had nothing of con- 
sequence to add to the slight sketches in Dodsley and the 
Biographica Dramatica, and I was unwilling to swell the 
volume with mere transcription. The reader will not fail 
to observe from the frequent instances of two or more per 



* The few notes which are interspersed will be found to be chiefljr 
critical. 



PREFACE. 



sons joining in the composition of the same play (the noble 
practice of those times), that of most of the writers con- 
tained in these selections it may be strictly said, that they 
were contemporaries. The whole period, from the middle 
of Elizabeth's reign to the close of the reign of Charles I., 
comprises a space of little more than half a century, within 
which time nearly all that we have of excellence in serious 
dramatic composition was produced, if we except the Sam- 
son Agonistes of Milton. 



TABLE OF REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. 



THOMAS SACKVILLE AND THOMAS NORTON. 

FAOl 

GORBOBUC 1 

THOMAS KYD. 

BPANIBH TRAGEDY 6 

GEORGE PEELE. 

DAVID AND BETHSABG 13 

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 

lust's dominion 15 

first part of tamburlaine 17 

edward ii is 

the rich jew of malta 27 

doctor faustus 30 

ROBERT TAILOR. 

THE HOQ HATH LOST HIS PEARL 39 

AUTHORS UNCERTAIN. 

NERO 46 

THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON 47 

JOSEPH COOKE. 

green's tu quoque 52 

THOMAS DECKER. 

OLD FORTUNATUS 53 

BATIRO-MASTIX 60 

FIRST PART OF THE HONEST WHORE 64 

SECOND PART OF THE HONEST WHORE ib. 



TABLE OF REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. 



THOMAS DECKER AND JOHN WEBSTER. 

PAOK 
WESTWARD HOE 66 

ANTHONY BREWER. 
LINGUA 67 

JOHN MARSTON. 

antonio and mei.l.ida ''s 

Antonio's revengk 70 

THE malcontent 75 

the wonder of women 76 

WHAT you will 77 

THE INSATIATE COUNTESS 79 

GEORGE CHAPMAN. 

CjESAR AND POMPEY ^1 

BUSSY d'ambois 83 

byron's conspiracy 87 

Byron's tr a gedy 91 

THOMAS HEYWOOD. 

A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY . • 94 

THE ROYAL KING AND THE LOYAL SUBJECT 99 

A WOMAN KILL'd WITH KINDNESS tb. 

THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER 106 

THOMAS HEYWOOD AND RICHARD BROOME. 
LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES . 113 

THOMAS MIDDLETON AND RICHARD ROWLEY. 
A FAIR QUARREL 117 

WILLIAM ROWLEY. 

all's LOST BY LUST 130 

A NEW WONDER 135 

THOMAS MIDDLETON. 

WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN 143 

MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIDES WOaiEN 148 

NO WIT HELP LIKE A WOMAN'S 151 

THE WITCH 153 



TABLE OK REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. xi 

WILLIAM ROWLEY, THOMAS DECKER, JOHN FORD, ETC. 

THI WITCH or EDMONTON 

CYRIL TOURNEUR. 



PAOK 

164 



THE atheist's TRAGEDY.. 
THE revenger's TRAGEDY. 



167 

no 



JOHN WEBSTER. 

184 
the devil b law case 

1 QQ 

APPIU8 AND VIRGINIA 

IQl 
DUCHESS or MALFY 

THE WHITE DEVIL . . 



SPECIMENS 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS- 



GORBODUC, A TRAGEDY. BY THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD 
BUCKHURST, AFTERWARDS EARL OF DORSET; AND 
THOMAS NORTON. 

Whilst kin^ Gorbodiic in the presence of his councillors laments the 
death of his eldest s:/n, Ferrtx, whom Porrex, the younger son, has 
slain ; Marcella, a court lady, enters and relates the miserable end of 
Porrex, stabbed by his mother in his bed. 

'-orhokuc, Arostus, Eubulus, and others. 

Gorh. What cruel de.stiny, 
What froward fate hath sorted us this chance ? 
That even in those where we should comfort find, 
Where our delight now in our aged days 
Sliould rest and be, even there our only grief 
And deepest sorrows to abridge our life. 
Most pining 'lares and deadly thougiits do grave. 

Arosi. Y<-ur grace should now, in these grave years of yours, 
Have found ere this the price of mortal joys, 
How full of change, how brittle our estate. 
How short they be, how fading here in earth. 
Of nothing sure, save only of the death. 
To whom both man and all iho world doth owe 
Their end at last ; neither should nature's power 
In other sort against your heart prevail, 
PAKT I. 2 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Than as the naked hand, whose stroke assays 
The armed breast where force doth light in vain. 

Gorh. Many can yield right grave and sage advice 
Of patient sprite to others wrapt in wo, 
And can in speech both rule and conquer kind,* 
Who, if by proof they might feel natuc s force. 
Would show themselves men as they are indeed, 
Which now will needs be gods : but what doth mean 
The sorry cheer of her that here doth come ? 

Marcella enters. 

Marc. Oh where is ruth ? or where is pity now ? 
Whither is gentle heart and mei'cy fled ? 
Vre they exil'tl out of our stony breasts, 
>fever to make return ? is all the world 
Drowned in blood, and sunk in cruelty 1 
i f not in women mercy may be found, 
if not (a)as) within the mother's breast 
To her own child, to her own flesh and blood ; 
If ruth be banisht thence, if pity there 
May have no place, if there no gentle heart 
Do live and dwell, where should we seek it then '? 
Gorh. Madam (alas) what means your woful taie * 
Marc. O silly woman I, why to this hour 
■'lave kind and fortune thus deferr'd my breath, 
That I should live to see this doleful day ? 
Will ever wight believe that such hard heart 
'Jould rest within the cruel motlicr's breast, 
With her own hand to slay her only son ? 
But out (alas) these eyes belield the same, 
They saw the dreary sight, and are become 
Most ruthful records of the bloody fact. 
Porrex, alas, is by his mother slain, 
And with her liaud, a woful thing to tell. 
While slumb'ring on his careful bed he rests, 
Mis heart stabb'd in with knife is reft of life. 

* Nature ; natural affection. 



GORBODUC. 



Gorh. O Eubulus, oh draw this sword of ours, 
And pierce this heart with speed. O hateful light, 
O loathsome life, O sweet and welcome death. 
Dear Eubulus, work this we thee beseech. 

Eub. Patient your grace, perhaps he liveth yet. 
With wound receiv'd but not of certain death. 

Gorh. O let us then repair unto the place. 
And see if that Porrex live, or thus be slain. \^Exit. 

Marc. Alas he liveth not, it is too true, 
That with these eyes, of him a peerless prince, 
Son to a king, and in the flower of youth, 
Even witli a twink* a senseless stock I saw. 

Arost. O damned deed ! 

Marc. But hear his ruthful end. 
The noble prince, pierced with the sudden wounds. 
Out of his wretched slumber hastily start,"]" 
Whose strength now failing, streight he overthrew, 
When in the fall his eyes ev'n now unclosed. 
Beheld the queen, and cried to her for help ; 
We then, alas, the ladies which that time 
Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed 
And hearing him oft call the wretched name 
Of mother, and to cry to her for aid, 
Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound, 
Pitying alas (for nought else could we do) 
His rueful end, ran to the woful bed. 
Despoiled streight his breast, and all we might 
Wiped in vain with napkins next at hand 
The sudden streams of blood, that flushed fast 
Out of the gaping wound : O what a look, 
O what a ruthful stedfast eye methought 
He fixt upon uiy face, which to my death 
Will never part from me, — wherewith abraid:}: 
A deep-fetch'd sigh he gave, and therewithall 
Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight ; 
And streight, pale death pressing within his face, 

• Twinkling of the eye. t Started. 

X Awaked ; raised up. 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



The flying ghost his mortal corps forsook. 

Arost. Never did age bring forth so vile a fact. 

Marc. O hard and cruel hap that thus assign'd 
Unto so worthy wight so wretched end : 
But most hard cruel heart tliat could consent, 
To lend the hateful destinies that hand, 
By which, alas, so heinous crime was wrought ; — 
O queen of adamant, O marble breast, 
If not the favor of his comely face 
If not his princely chear and countenance. 
His valiant active arms, his manly breast. 
If not his fair and seemly personage ; 
His noble limbs, in such proportion cast 
As would have rapt a silly woman's thought ; 
If this might not have rnov'd the bloody heart. 
And that most cruel hand the wretched weapon 
Even to let fall, and kist him in the face. 
With tears, for ruth to reave such one by death ; 
Should nature yet consent to slay her son ? 
O mother, thou to murder thus thy child ! 
Even Jove with justice must with light'ning flames 
From heaven send down some strange revenge on thee. 
Ah noble prince, how oft have I beheld 
Thee mounted on thy fierce and trampling steed, 
Shining in armor bright before the tilt. 
And with thy mistress' sleeve tied on thy helm. 
There charge thy staff", to please thy lady's eye. 
That bow'd the head piece of thy friendly foe ! 
How oft in arms on horse to bend the mace. 
How oft in arms on foot to break the svvoi'd. 
Which never now these eyes may see again. 

Arost. Madam, alas, in vain these plaints are shed. 
Rather with me depart, and help to assuage 
The thoughtful griefs, that in the aged king 
Must needs by nature grow, by death of tliis 
His only son, whom he did hold so dear. 

Marc. What wight is that which saw that I did see 
And could refrain to wail with plaint and tears ? 



GORBODUC. 



Not I, alas, that heart is not in mc ; 

But let us go, for I ani gricv'd anew. 

To call to mind the wretched father's wo. [Exeunt. 

Chorus of aged men. When greedy lust in royal seat to reign 
Hath reft all care of gods and eke of men ; 
And cruel heart, wrath, treason, and disdain. 
Within th' ambitious hreast arc lodged, then 
Behold how mischief wide herself displays, 
And with the brother's hand the brother slays. 

When blood thus shed doth stain this heaven's face, 
Crying to Jove for vengeance of the deed. 
The mighty God even moveth from his place 
With wrath to wreak ; then sends he lorlb with speed 
The dreadfid Furies, daughters of the night. 
With serpents girt, carrying the whip of ire, 
With hair of stinging snakes, and shining bright 
With flames and blood, and with a brand of fire : 
These, for revenge of wretched murder done, 
Doth cause the mother kill her only son. 

Blood askcth blood, and death must death requit ; 
Jove by his just and everlasting doom 
Justly hath ever so requited it. 
This tinies before record and times to come 
Shall find it true, and so doth present proof 
Present before our eyes for our behoof. 

O happy wight that suflers not the snare 
Of murderous mind to tangle him in blood : 
And hapjiy he that can in time beware 
By others' harms, and turn it to his good : 
But wo to him that fearing not to ofl^end, 
Doth serve his lust, and will not sec the end. 

[The style of this old play is stiff and cumbersome, like the.dresses of its 
times. There may be flesh and blood underneath, but wc cannot get at it. 
Sir Philip Sydney has praised it for its inor;dit.y. One of jts autliors might 
easily fiiiiish that. Norton was an associate to Hopkins, Stcrnhold, and 
Robert Wisdom, in the Singing Psalms. I am willing to believe that Lord 
Buckhurst supplied the more vital parts. The chief beauty in the extract 
is of a secret nature. Marcella obscurely intimates that the murdered 
prince Porrex and she had been lovers.] 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY ; OR HIERONIMO IS MAD AGAIN. 
A TRAGEDY BY THOMAS KYD. 



■ 
I 



Horatio, the son of Hieronimo, is murdered while he is sitting with his 
mistress Belimperia by night in an arbor in his father's garden. The 
murderers {Balthazar, his rival, and Lorenzo, the brother of Belimpe- 
ria) hang his body 07i a tree. Hieronimo is awakened by the cries of i 
Belimperia, and coming out into his garden, discovers by the light of a I 
torch, that the murdered man is his son. Upon this he goes distracted. 

Hieronimo mad. 
Hier. My son I and what's a son ? 
A thing begot within a pair of minutes, there about : 
A lump bred up in darkness, and doth serve 
To balance those light creatures we call women ; 
And at the nine months' end creeps forth to light. 
What is there yet in a son, 
To make a father doat, rave, or run mad ? 
Being born, it pouts, cries, and breeds teeth. 
What is there yet in a son ? 
He must be fed, be taught to go, and speak. 
Ay, or yet ? why might not a man love a calf as well ? 
Or melt in passion o'er a frisking kid, as for a son ? 
Methinks a young bacon, 
Or a fine little smooth horse colt, 
Should move a man as much as doth a son ; 
For one of these, in very little time, 
Will grow to some good use ; whereas a son 
The more he grows in stature and in years, 
The more unsquar'd, unlevell'd he appears ; 
Reckons his parents among the rank of fools, 
Strikes cares upon their heads with his mad riots, 
Makes them look old before they meet with age ; 
This is a son ; and what a loss is this, considered truly ! 
Oh, but my Horatio grew out of reach of those 
Insatiate humors : he lov'd his loving parents : 
He was my comfort, and his mother's joy, 
The very arm that did hold up our house — 
Our hopes were stored up in him, 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 



None but a damned murderer could hate him. 

He had not seen the back of nineteen years, 

When his strong arm unhors'd the proud prince Balthazar ; 

Vnd his great mind, too full of honor, took 

^o mercy that valiant but ignoble Portuguese. 

V^ell heaven is heaven still ! 

i.nd there is Nemesis, and furies, 

Lnd things call'd whips, 

■vnd they sometimes do meet with murderers : 
They do not always 'scape, that's some comfort, 
Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and steals, and steals, 
Till violence, leaps forth, like thunder 
Wrapt in a ball of fire, 
And so doth bring confusion to them all. [ExU. 

Jaques and Pedro, Servants. 

Jaq. I wonder, Pedro, why our master thus 
At midnight sends us with our torches light, 
When man and bird and beast are all at rest, 
Save those that watch for rape and bloody murder. 

Ped. O Jaques, know thou that our master's mind 
Is much distract since his Horatio died : 
And, now his aged years should sleep in rest, 
His heart in quiet, like a desperate man 
Grows lunatic and childish for his son : 
Sometimes as he doth at his table sit. 
He speaks as if Horatio stood by him. 
Then starting in a rage, falls on the earth. 
Cries out Horatio, where is my Horatio ? 
So that with extreme grief, and cutting sorrow, 
There is not left in him one inch of man : 
See here he comes. 

HiERONiMO enters. 
Hier. I pry thro' every crevice of each wall. 
Look at each tree, and search thro' every brake. 
Beat on the bushes, stamp our grandame earth, 
Dive in the water, and stare up to heaven ; 
Yet cannot I behold my son Horatio. 



ENGLISH OR AIMATIC POETS. 



How now, who's there, sprights, s|n i<;hts .' 

Fed. We aro your servants that attend you, sir 

TJier. What make you with your torclies in the dark ? 

Fed. You hill us light them, and attend you here. 

Hier, No, no, you aro deceiv'd, not I, you are deceiv'd : 
Was I so mad to bid you liglit your torches now ? 
Light me your torches at the mid of noon, 
When as tiie sun god rides in all his glory ; 
Light me your torches then. 

Fed. Then we burn day liglit. 

Hier. Let it be burnt ; night is a murd'rous slut, 
That would not have ii(>r treasons to be seen : 
And yonder pale fiic'd lic>eut(> there, the moon, 
Doth give consent to that is done in darkness. 
And all those stars that gaze upon her face. 
Arc aglets* on her sleeve, pins on her train : 
And tliose that siiould he p()W(<rAil and tlivine. 
Do sleejixin darkness when they most should shine. 

Fed. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words, 
Tlie heavens are gracious ; and your miseries 
And sorrow make you speak you know not what. 

Hier. Villain, thou lyest, and thou doest nought 
But tell me 1 am mad : thou lyest, f am not mad : 
I know tiiee to be I'cdro, ami he .hKiiies. 
I'll prove it to ihee ; and wcvv I nuid, how could 1 ? 
Where was slic the same nigiit, when my Horatio was murder'd ? 
She should have shone : search thou the book : 
Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind of grace, 
That I know, nay, 1 do know had ther nmrd'rer seen him, 
His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth. 
Had he been IVam'd of nought but blood and death ; 
Alack, when mischief doth it knows not wiiat, 
Wliat shall we say to mischief? 

IsAUKiJ.A. ///.v liufr, enters. 
Is<i. Dear llieronimo, eonu* in u doors, 
O seek not means to increase thy sorrow. 
* Tugs of points. 



Tlll'l SPANISH TRAlJKDY. 



Hier. Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing here ; 
I do not cry, ask Pedro and Jaques : 
Not 1 iiidcod, wo are very merry, very moi-ry. 

Isti. How ? be merry here, bo merry here ? 
[s not this tiie place, and this the very tree, 
Where my Horatio died, wiiere he was murder'd ? 

Hicr. Was, do not say what : let her weep it out. 
This was the tree, I set it of a kernel ; 
And when our hot Spain could not let it grow, 
But tiiat the infant and th(^ human sap 
Began to witiier, duly twice a morning 
Would I be spriidding it with fountain water : 
At last it grew and grew, and bore and bore : 
Till at length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son. 
It bore thy fruit and mine. O wicked, wicked plant. 
See who knocks there. [O/te knocks willdn at the door. 

Fed. It is a painter, sir. 

Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort. 
For surely there's none lives but painted comfort, 
lift him coMK! in, one knows not what may chance. 
(jJod's will that I should set this tree ! but even so 
Masters ungrateful servants rear from nought, 
And tlien they hate them that did bring thorn up. 

Tke Painter enters. 

Pain, (jod bl<!ss you, sir. 

Hier. Wherefore ? why, thou scornful villain 1 
How, where, or by what means should I be blest ? 

Isa. What wouldst thou have, good fellow ? 

Pain. Justice, madam. 

Hier. O aiMbitious bciggar, wouldst thou have that 
That lives not in the world ? 
Why, all the undelved mines cannot buy 
An ounce of justice, 'tis a jewel so inestimable. 
I tell thee, God liath engross'd all justice in his hands, 
And there is none but what comes from him. 

Pain. C) then I see that God must riglit me for my murder'd 
son. 



10 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS 



Hier. How, was thy son murder'd ? 

Pai7i. Ay, sir, no man did hold a son so dear. 

Hier. What, not as thine ? that's a lie, 
As massy as the earth : I had a son, 
Whose least unvalued hair did weigh 
A thousand of thy sons, and he was murder'd. 

Pain. Alas, sir, I had no more but he. 

Hier. Nor I, nor I ; but this same one of mine 
Was worth a legion. But all is one. 
Pedro, Jaques, go in a doors, Isabella, go. 
And this good follow here, and 1, 
Will range this hideous orchard up and down, 
Like two she lions, 'reaved of their young. 
Go in a doors I say. [Exeunt. 

{The Painter and he sit down.) 
Come let's talk wisely now. 
Was thy son murdered '? 

Pain. Ay, sir. 

Hier. So was mine. 
How dost thou take it ? art thou not sometime mad ? 
Is there no tricks that come before thine eyes ? 

Pain. O lord, yes, sir. 

Hier. Art a painter ? canst paint me a tear, a wound ? 
A groan or a sigh ? canst paint me such a tree as this ? 

Pain. Sir, I am sure you have heard of my painting ; 
My name 's Bazardo. 

Hier. Bazardo ! 'fore God an excellent fellow. Look you, 
sir. 
Do you see ? I'd have you paint me in my gallery, in your oil 
colors matted, and draw me five years younger than I am : do 
you see, sir? let five years go, let them go, — my wife Isabella 
standing by me, with a speaking look to my son Horatio, wliich 
should intend to this, or some such like purpose ; God Mess thee., 
my sweet son ; and my hand leaning upon his head thus, sir, do 
you see ? may it be done ? 

Pain. Very well, sir. 

Hier. Nay, I pray mark me, sir. 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. U 

Then, sir, would I have' you paint me this tree, this very tree : 
Canst paint a doleful cry ? 

jPam. ^Seemingly, sir. 

Hier. Nay, it should cry ; but all is one. 
Well, sir, paint me a youth run thro' and thro' with villains' 

swords hanging upon this tree. 
Canst thou draw a murd'rer? 

Pain. I'll warrant you, sir ; I have the pattern of the most 
notorious villains that ever lived in all Spain. 

Hicr. O, let them be worse, worse : stretch thine art. 
And let their beards be of Judas's own color. 
And let their eye-brows jut over : in any case observe that; 
Then, sir, after some violent noise. 

Bring mo forth in my shirt and my gown undnr my arm, with 
my torch in my hand, and my sword rcar'd up thus, — 
And with these words ; What noise is this ? who calls Hieronimo ? 
May It be done ? 

Pain. Yea, sir. 

Hicr. Well, sir, then bring me forth, bring me thro' alley and 
alley, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my 
hair heave up my night-cap. 

Let the clouds scowl, make the moon darlc, the stars extinct, 
the winds blowing, the bells tolling, the owls shrieking, the toads 
croaking, the minutes jarring, and the clock striking twelve. 

And tiien at last, sir, starting, behold a man hanging, and tot- 
t'ring, and tott'ring, as you know the wind will wave a man, and 
I with a trice to cut him down. 

And looking upon him by the advantage of my torch, find it to 
be my son Horatio. 

There you may show a passion, there you may show a passion. 

Draw me like old Priam of Troy, crying, the house is a fire, 
the house is a fire ; and the torch over my head ; make me curse, 
make me rave, make me cry, make me mad, make me well 
again, make me curse hell, invocate, and in the end leave me in 
a trance, and so forth. 

Pain. And is this the end ? 

Hier. O no, there is no end : the end is death and madness ; 
And I am never better than when I am mad ; 



12 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Then methinks I am a brave fellow ; 

Then I do wonders ; but reason abuseth me ; 

And there's the torment, there's the hell. 

And last, sir, bring me to one of the murderers ; 

Were he as strong as Hector, 

Thus would I tear and drag him up and down. 

(He beats the Painter in.) 

[These scenes, which are the very salt of the old play (which without 
them is hut a caput mortuum, such another piece of flatness as Locrinc), 
Hiiwkius, in his republication of this trajjedy, lias thrust out of the text 
into the notes: as omitted in the Second Edition, "printed for Ed. Alide, 
amended of such gross blunders as ))assed in the first:" and thinks them 
to have been foisted in by the players. — A late discovery at Dulwich Col- 
lege has ascertained that two sundry j)ayments were made to Ben Jonson 
by the Theatre for furnishing additicuis to Hicronimo. See last edition of 
Sliakspeare by Reed. There is nothing in the undoubted plays of .lonson 
which would authorize us to suppose that he could have sujiplied the 
scenes in question. I should susjiect the agency of some " more potent 
spirit." Webster might have furnished them. They are full of that wild 
solemn i)reternatural cast of grief wliich l)evvilders us in the Duchess of 
Malfy.] 



THE LOVE OF KING DAVID AND FAIR RKTILSA15E, WITH THE 
TRAGEDY OF ABSALOM. BY GEORGE PEELM 

Bethsahc, with her maid, bathing. She sings: and David sits above, 
viewing her. 

The Song. 
Hot sun, cool fire, tcmper'd with sweet air, 
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair : 
Shine sun, burn fire, breatiic air and ease me. 
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me; 
Sliadow (my sweet nurse) keep me from burning, 
Make not my glad cause, cause of mourning. 
Let not my beauty's fire 
FiUfiame unstaid desire, 
Nor pierce any In-ight eye 
That wanderelh lightlv. 



DAVID AND BETHSABE. 13 

BeihsahQ. Come gentle Zephyr trick'd with those perfumes 
That erst in Eden sweetened Adam's love, 
And stroke my bosom with the silken fan : 
This shade (sun-proof) is yet no proof for thee, 
Tliy body smoother than this waveless spring, 
And purer than the substance of the same, 
Can creep through that his* lances cannot pierce. 
Thou and thy sister soft and sacred Air, 
Goddess of life, and governess of health, 
Keeps every fountain fresh and arbor sweet ; 
No brazen gate her passage can repulse. 
Nor bushy thicket l)ar thy subtle breath. 
Then deck thee with thy loose delightsome robes, 
And on thy wings bring delicate perfumes, 
To play the wantons with us through the leaves. 

David. What tunes, what words, what looks, what wonders 
pierce 
My soul, incensed with a sudden fire ! 
What tree, what shade, what spring, what paradise, 
Enjoys the beauty of so fair a dame ! 
Fair Eva, plac'd in perfect happiness, 
Lending iier praise-notes to tlie liberal heavens, 
Struck with the accents of Arch-angels' tunes, 
Wrought not more pleasure to her husband's thoughts. 
Than this fair woman's words and notes to mine. 
May that sweet plain that bears her pleasant weight, 
Be still enamell'd with discolor'd flowers ; 
That precious fount bear sand of purest gold ; 
And for the pebble, let the silver streams 
That pierce earth's bowels to maintain the source. 
Play upon rubies, sapphires, chrysolites ; 
The brim let be imbrac'd with golden curls 
Of moss that sleeps with sound the waters make 
For joy to feed the fount with their recourse ; 
Let all the grass that beautifies her bower 
Bear manna every morn instead of dew ; 
Or let the dew be sweeter far than that 

* The sun's ravs. 



14 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill, 
Or babn which trickled from old Aaron's beard. 

Enter Cusay. 
See Cusay, see the flower of Israel, 
The fairest daughter that obeys the king 
In all the land the Lord subdued to me. 
Fairer than Isaac's lover at the well, 
Brighter than inside bark of new-hewn cedar, 
Sweeter than flames of flue perfumed myrrh ; 
And comelier than the silver clouds that dance 
On Zephyr's wings before the king of Heaven. 

Cusay. Is it not Bethsabe the Hethite's wife 
Urias, now at Rabeth siege with Joab ? 

David. Go now and bring her quickly to the King ; 
Tell her, her graces hath found grace with him. 

Cttsay. I will, my Lord. [Exit. 

David. Bright Bethsabe shall wash in David's bower 
In water mix'd with purest almond flower, 
And bathe her beauty in the milk of kids ; 
Bright Bethsabe gives earth to my desires, 
Verdure to earth, and to that verdure flowers, 
To flowers sweet odors, and to odors wings, 
That carries pleasures to the hearts of Kings. 

********* 
Now comes my Lover tripping like the Roe, 
And brings my longings tangled in her hair. 
To joy her love I'll build a kingly bower, 
Seated in hearing of a hundred streams. 
That, for their homage to her sovereign joys. 
Shall, as the serpents fold into their nests. 
In oblique turnings wind the nimble waves 
About the circles of her curious walks, 
And with their murmur summon easeful sleep 
"•"To lay his golden sceptre on her brows. 

[There is more of the same stufT, but I suppose the reader has a surfeit ; 
especially as this Canticle of David has never been suspected to contain any 
pious sense couched underneath it, whatever his son's may. The Kingly 
bower "seated in hearing of a hundred streams," is tlie best of it.] 



LUST'S DOMINION. 15 



LUST'S DOMINION ; OR, THE LASCIVIOUS QUEEN. A TRAGE- 
DY, liY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 

The Queen Mother of Spain loves an insolent Moor* 

Queen. — Eleazar, the Moor. 

Queen. Chime out your softest strains of iiarmony, 
And on delicious Music's silken wings 
Send ravisiiing delight to my love's ears ; 
That he may be enamor'd of your tunes. 

Eleaz. Away, away. 

Queen. No, no, says aye ; and twice away, says stay. 
Come, come, I'll have a kiss ; but if you'll strive, 
For one denial you shall forfeit five. 

Eleaz. Be gone, be gone. 

Queen. What means my love ? 
Burst all those wires ; burn all those instruments ; 
For tliey displease my Moor. Art thou now pleas'd ? 
Or wert thou now disturb'd 1 I'll wage all Spain 
To one sweet kiss, this is some new device 
To make me fond and long. Oh, you men 
Have tricks to make poor women die for you. 

Eleaz. What, die for me? Away. 

Queen. Away, what way ? I prithee, speak more kindly. 
Why dost thou frown ? at whom ? 

Eleaz. At thee. 

Queen. At me ? 

why at me ? for each contracted frown, 
A crooked wrinkle interlines my brow : 
Spend but one hour in frowns, and I shall look 
Like to a Beldam of one hundred years. 

1 prithee, speak to me, and chide me not, 
I prithee, chide, if I have done amiss j 
But let my punishment be this, and this, 
I prithee, smile on me, if but a while ; 
Then frown on me, I'll die. I prithee, smile. 

• Such another as Aaron in Titus Andronicus. 



16 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Smile on me ; and these two wanton boys, 
These pretty lads that do attend on me, 
Shall call thee Jove, shall wait upon thy cup 
And fill thee nectar : their enticing eyes 
Shall serve as crystal, wherein thou may'st see 
To dress thyself; if thou wilt smile on me. 
Smile on me ; and with coronets of pearl 
And bells of gold, circling their pretty arms, 
In a round ivory fount these two shall swim, 
And dive to make thee sport : 
Bestow one smile, one little little smile, 
And in a net of twisted silk and gold 
In my all-naked arms thyself shalt lie. 

[Kit Marlowe, as old Izaak Walton assures us, made that smooth song 
which begins " Come live with me and be my love." The same romantic 
invitations " in folly ripe in reason rotten," are given by the queen in the 
play, and the lover in the ditty. He talks of " beds of roses, buckles of 
gold :" 

Thy silver dishes for thy meat. 

As precious as the Gods do eat, 

Shall on an ivory table be 

Prepared each day for thee and me. 

The lines in the extract have a luscious smoothness in them, and they were 
the most temperate which I could pick out of this Play. The rest is in 
King Cambyses' vein ; rape, and murder, and superlatives ; "huffing brag- 
gart puft" lines,* such as the play writers anterior to Shakspeare are full 
of, and Pistol " but coldly imitates." Blood is made as light of in some of 

* Take a specimen from the speech of the Moor's : — 
Now Tragedy, thou minion of the night, 
Rhamnusia's pue-fellow, to thee I'll sing 
Upon an harp made of dead Spanish bones, 
The proudest instrument the world aflbrds; 
When thou in crimson jollity, shall bathe 
Thy limbs as bhck as mine, in springs of blood 
Still gushing from the conduit head of Spain. 
To thee that never blush'st, though thy cheeks 
Are full of blood, Saint Revenge, to thee 
I consecrate my murders, all my stabs. 
My bloody labors, tortures, stratagems. 
The volume of all wounds that wound from me ; 
Mine is the Stage, thine is the Tragedy 



TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT. 17 

these old dramas as money in a modern sentimental comedy ; and as this \3 
given away till it reminds us that it is nothing but counters, so that is spilt 
till it allbcts us no more than its representative, the paint of the property- 
man in the theatre.] 



TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT; OR, THE SCYTHIAN SHEPHERD. 
IN TWO PARTS. BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.— PART FIRST. 

Tambvrlaine's person described. 

Of stature tall, and straightly fashioned ; 

Like his desire, lift* upwards and divine. 

So large of limbs, his joints so strongly knit, 

Such breadth of shoulders, as might mainly bear 

Old Atlas' burthen. 'Twixt his manly pitch 

A pearl more worth than all the world is placed : 

Wherein by curious soverainty of art 

Are fi.xed his piercing instruments of sight : 

Whose fiery circles bear encompassed 

A heaven of heavenly bodies in their spheres : 

That guides his steps and actions to the throne 

Where Honor sits invested royally. 

Pale of complexion, wrought in him with passion 

Thirsting with soverainty and love of arms. 

His lofty brows in folds do figure death ; 

And in their smoothness amity and life. 

About them hangs a knot of amber hair, 

Wrapped in curls, as fierce Achilles' was ; 

On which the breath of heaven delights to play, 

Making it dance with wanton majesty. 

His arms and fingers long and sinewy, 

Betokening valor and excess of strength ; 

In every part proportioned like the man 

Should make the world subdue to Tamburlaine. 

His custom in war. 
The first day when he pitcheth down his tents, 

* Lifted. 

PART I. 3 



ENGLIS>I DRAMATIC POETS. 



White is their hue ; and on his silver crest 

A snowy feather spangled white he bears ; 

To signify the mildness of liis mind, 

That, satiate with spoil, refuseth blood : 

But when Aurora mounts the second time, 

As red as scarlet is his furniture ; 

Then must his kindled wrath be quenched with bloody 

Not sparing any that can manage arms : 

But if these threats move not submission. 

Black are his colors, black pavilion, 

His spear, his shield, his horse, his armor, plumes, 

And jetty feathers, menace death and hell ; 

Without respect of sex, degree or age, 

He raseth all his foes with fire and sword. 

[I had the same difficulty (or rather much more) in culling a few sane 
lines from this as from the preceding Play. The lunes of Tamburlaine are 
perfect " midsummer madness." Nebuchadnazar's are mere modest pre- 
tensions compared with the thundej'ing vaunts of this Scythian Shepherd. 
He comes in (in the Second Part) drawn by conquered kings, and reproaches 
these pampered jades of Asia that they can draw but twenty miles a day. 
Till I saw this passage with my own eyes, I never believed that it was any- 
thing more than a pleasant burlesque of Mine Ancient's. But I assure my 
readers tliat it is soberly set down in a Play which their Ancestors took to 
be serious. I have subjoined the genuine speech for their amusement. 
Enter Tamburlaine, drawn in his chariot by Trebizon and Soria, with 
bits in their mouths, reins in his left hand, in his right hand a whip, with 
which he scourgcth them. 

Tamb. Holla, ye pamper'd jades of Asia: 

AVhat can ye draw but twenty miles a day. 

And have so proud a chariot at your heels, 

And such a coachman as great Tamburlaine .' 

But from Asphaltis, where I conquered you, 

To Byron here, where thus I honor you .' 

The horse that guide the golden eye of heaven. 

And blow the morning from their nostrils, 

Making their fiery gate above the glades. 

Are not so honored in their governor 

As you ye slaves in mighty Tamburlaine. 

The headstrong jades of Thrace Alcides tamed, 

That King Egeus fed with human flesh, 

And made so wanton that tliey knew their strengths. 

Were not subdued with valor more divine, 



EDWARD THE SECOND. t9 



Than you by this unconquer'd arm of mine. 
To make you fierce and fit my appetite, 
You shall be fed with flesh as raw as blood, 
And drink in pails the strongest muscadel: 
If you can live with it, then live and draw 
My chariot swifter tlian the racking clouds: 
If not, then die like beasts, and fit for nought 
But perches for the black and fatal ravens. 
Thus am I right the scourge of highest Jove, &c.] 



EDWARD THE SECOND. A TRAGEDY, BY CHRISTOPHER 
MARLOWE. 

Gaveston shows what pleasures those are which the King chiefly ae- 

lights in. 

Gav. I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits, 
Musicians, that with touching of a string 
May draw the pliant King which way I please. 
Music and poetry are his delight ; 
Therefore I'll have Italian masks by night, 
Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows ; 
And in the day, when he shall walk abroad, 
Like Sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad ; 
My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns, 
Shall with their goat-feet dance the antick hay. 
Sometimes a lovely boy in Dian's shape, 
With hair that gilds the water as it glides, 
Crownets of pearl about his naked arms, 
And in his sportful hands an olive tree 
To hide those parts which men delight to see, 
Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by, 
One like Acteon, peeping thro' the grove, 
Shall by the angry goddess be transform'd, 
And running in the likeness of an hart. 
By yelping hounds pull'd down, shall seem to die ; 
Such things as these best please his majesty. 

The younger Mortimer repines at the insolence of Gaveston. 

Mort. sen. Nephew I must to Scotland, thou stay'st here. 



20 ENCMSII l)l,\\MATIC POETS. 



lionvonow to oppost^ tliyscH'imaiiist iho King. 

'I'lioii sccst hy niitmc lie is iiiilil and i^alm, 

And s(>('in<j; Jiis mind so doals on (Javi'ston, 

Let liini witliont conlrohncnl liavc ids will. 

Tlic inii^lilicsl liinns jiavc had liicir nunions : 

(ircat Mfxandcr lov'd ll(>plicstion ; 

Tlio ('()n(|nriiiijr I |(<r(nil(>s (or his llilas wept, 

And (or I'atrocdns stern Aehill(>s droo|)'d. 

And not kin<j;s only, hnt tlio wis(\st uion ; 

The iJonian 'rnlly lov'd Oclavius ; 

(Jravc Socralcs wild Alcihiadcs. 

Then let his jj;racc, whose youtli is (Icxiidts 

And proniiscth as nuich as we can wish, 

I''r(>cly tMijoy that vain linht-hcadtMl (>arl, * 

l''or riper years will wean him iVom sneli toys. 

Dlorl. jiiii. Uncle, his wanton hnmor grieves not ine j 
Hut this 1 scorn, that one so hasidy born, 
Should hy his soven^gn's lavor grow so pert, 
And riot with the treasure ofllu' rt>alni. 
\\'hil»> soldiers nuiliny ll)r want oC pay, 
lie wears a lord's r(>venu(> on his back, 
And Midas-like, h(> jets it in the court, 
\\'ith base outlandish cuUions at his heels, 
Whose |)roud t'antastit^ liveries make such show, 
As if that Proteus, god of shapes, appoar'd. 
1 have not seen n dapper jack so brisk ; 
lie wears a short Italian hooded cloak, 
liarded with pearl, and in his Tuscan cap 
A jewel oC more value than the crown, 
\\'hil(> others walk beU)W, the king and he, 
iMom out a w indow, laugh at such as wo 
And (lout our train, and jest at our attire. 
l'iu'l(\ 'tis this that mak(>s nu> impatient. 



EDWAllI) TIIK SKCONI). 21 



The Barunn reproach the Kinff 7i'ilh the ni/nniilirii whirh the realm 
vikIuivs from the tisccni/riiri/ of his iiuclivil Jaixirilr (Itwistiiu. 

KlN(i l')l)VVAHI), liANCA.STKII, VVaiIWICK. 77/r MdU TIIM i:if S (Mill 

other liOKDS. 

Mori. jtm. Niiy, sltiy, my lord, I v.uwn- lo liriii;^ you iiows. 
Miiui niicic i.s lukcii |ii'i.soiii'i' l»y llw Scots. 

I'Ulw. TIk'H ruiisoMi liiiii. 

Lan. 'Tvvus in your wars, you slioiild rniisoni liiiu. 

Mort.jiin. And you sliull runsoui iiiiii, or cl.sc! 

Kent. VVliut, Morliuicr, you will mil, tJircatcii liini '! 

iUiin. (iiiict. yourscK", you .sliull liiivti IIk; lu'oud sciil, 
To f^utlicr for liiui tlii'ou<i,'lioul. the rciilni. 

Layi. Your inininn ( iiivrslmi lialli liiu^dil you this. 

Mort.jiin. My liord, IIk; I'uniily oI'IJh! Mitrtirucrs 
Are not so pool-, but would tlicy hcII their hind, 
Could levy men enough to iin<^f('r you. 
"Wo never hrjr, hui, use Hindi priiyers us these. 

/v/m». Shull I still he IiuuiiIimI thus? 

Mort.jiin. Nuy, now you ure here alone, I'll speuk my mind. 

Lan. And so will I, und then, my lord, (iirewell. 

Mori. 'I'he idle trimnphs, musks, las(!ivious shows, 
And prodigal {^ilts Ix^stow'd on (iuveston. 
Have ilrawn thy trcuHUi'i' dry, mid m;ide thee weak ; 
Tli(! iiiurmiirin^ <:oiiimoiis, overslretehed, hreak. 

Lan. liook li)r ludicllioii, look to hr depusM ; 
Thy ffarrisons are Ixwiten out of i''iii,n(te. 
And lame ami poor li(! f^roaiiin;^ at the (^alcs. 
Tho wild ()n(!yle, with HWainis of Irish kerns, 
Live uiicoiitrol'd within the l']ii<^lisli \m\v. 
Unto the walls oC Y(jrk tlif! S(;ols make road. 
And unresisted dr.iw away ri(!li spoils. 

Mori. Jan. 'V\\i' hauf^hty Daiu; commands the narrow seuH, 
While in \\w liarhor rid(3 thy ships unv'u^i^W. 

Lnv. What fiireiffii prinee sends tlietj (wiihassadors ? 

Mori. Who loves th(;((, hut a, sort offlattftrerH ? 

Lnii. Thy f^eiillf! (|uer'ii, sole; sister to Valoys, 
Coni|)lains that tliou liuHt left her uU (brlorn. 



22 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Mori. Thy court is naked, being bereft of those, 
That make a king seem glorious to tlie world : 
I mean the peers, whom thou shouldst dearly love. 
Libels are cast against thee in tlie street : 
Ballads and rhimes made of thy overthrow. 

Lan. The Northern brothers seeing their houses burnt, 
Their wives and children slain, run up and down 
Cursing the name of thee and Gaveston. 

Mo/7. When wert tliou in the tield with banner spread ? 
But once : and then thy soldiers niarch'd like players, 
With garish robes, not armor ; and thyself, 
Bedaub'd with gold, rode laughing at the rest, 
Nodding and shaking of thy spangled crest, 
Where women's tlivors hung like labels down. 

Lan. And thereof came it, that the fleering Scots, 
To England's high disgrace, have made this jig : 
Maiih of Etiir/aiid, sore mat/ i/ou mooni, 
For i/onr Icmmons }/oii luwc lost at Bcnnock's born, 
With a heave and a ho. 
What weened the khii; of England, 
So soon to have woon Scothmd, 
With a rofiihelhnc ^ 

Mort. Wigmore* siiall fly to set my uncle free. 

Lan. And when 'tis gone, our swords shall purchase more. 
If ye be mov'd, revenge it as you can ; 
Look next to see us with our ensigns spread. 

[Excimt Nobles. 

T%e I^ng bcin^ dtpofted, siirrtndrrs his croirn into the hands of the 
Bishop of H'inchtsttrand the Eart of I^icfstcr at h'it/in^nvrlh Ca.'it/e. 

Lei. Bo patient, good my lord, cease to lament, 
Imagine Killingworth castle were your court. 
And that you lay for pl(\isure here a space. 
Not of compulsion or necessity. 

Edir. Leister, if gentle words might comfort me, 
Thv speeches long ago had eas'd my sorrows ; 
l\ir kind and loving hast thou always 'jovn. 

* A priiicipid manor bL4ongiu^ to tlio Mortimers. 



kdu'ak;) •nii; skcond. ts 

The griufs of private men aro soon allay'd, 
But not of kings. Tiio forest ih:vv being struck, 
Runs to an herb that closetli up the wounds ; 
But when the imperial lion's flesh is gor'd, 
Me rends and tears it with his wrathful paw, 
And highly scorning that the lowly earth 
Should drink his blood, mounts up to th' air. 
And so it fares with mo, whose dauntless mind 
Th' ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb, 
And that unnatural (|ueen, false Isabel, 
That thus hath jK'nt and mkhvM me in a prison: 
For such outrageous 'passions claw my soul, 
As with the wings of rancor and disdain 
Full oft am I soaring up to high heav'n. 
To 'plain me to the gods against them both. 
But when I call to mind I am a king, 
Methinks I should reven<;e me of the wrongs. 
That Mortimer and Isabel have done. 
But what are kings, when regiment is gone, 
But perfect shadows in a sunshine day ? 
My noljles rule, I bear the name of king ; 
I wear the crown, but am controU'd by them. 
By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen. 
Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy ; 
Whilst I am lodg'd within this cave of care, 
Where sorrow at my elbow still attends, 
To com|)any my heart witli sad laments. 
That bleeds within me for this strange exchange. 
But tell me, nmst I now resign my crown ? 
To make usurping Mortimer a king ? 

Bish. Your grace mistakes, it is for England's good, 
And princely Edward's right, we crave the crown. 

Edw. No, 'tis for Mortimer, not Edward's head ; 
For he 's a lamb, encompassed by wolves, 
Which in a moment will aliridgc his life. 
But if proud Mortimer do w(^ar this crown, 
Heav'ns turn it to a bla/.e of (iiienchless fire, 
Or like tiic snaky wreath of Tisiphon, 



2i KNCLlSll DRAMATIC POETS. 



I'lngiit llic li"inpU<s of his haU'ful head ; 

tSo shall not England's vines be perished, 

But Edward's name survive, though Edward dies. 

Lei. My lord, why waste you thus the time away ? 
They stay your answer, will you yield your crown i 

Edw. Ah, Leister, weigh how hardly 1 can brook 
To lose my crown and kingdom without cause ; 
To give ambitious JMortimer my right. 
That like a mountain overwhelms my bliss, 
In which e.\trem«^ my mind here murther'd is. 
But what the heav'ns appoint, 1 nuist obey. 
Here, take my crown ; the life of Edward too ; 
Two Kings in England cannot reign at once — 
But slay awhile, let me bo king till night. 
That 1 may gaze upon this glittering crown ; 
So shall my eyes receive their last content. 
My head the latest honor due to it. 
And jointly both yield up their wished right. 
Continue ever, thou celestial sun ; 
Let never silent night |)ossess this clime; 
Stand still, you watches of the element; 
All times and seasons, rest you at a stay, 
That Edward may be still fair England's king. 
But liay's bright beam doth vanish fast away, 
And needs 1 must resign my wished crown; 
Inlunnaii creatures! nurs'd witii tiger's miUi ! 
Why gap(^ vou for your sovereign's overthrow ? 
My diadem i mean, and guiltless life. 
See, monsters, see, I'll wear my crown again. 
Wiiat, fear you not the fury of your king ? 
But, hapless Edward, thou art tbndly led, 
They pass not for thy frowns as late they did. 
But seek to make a new-elected king ; 
Which fills my mind with strange despairing thoughts, 
Which thoughts are martyred with endless torments, 
And in this torment comfort ihid I none., 
But tJiat I feel the crown upon my head ; 
And therefore let me wear it yet awhile. 



EDWARD THE SECOND. 25 

Messenger. My lord, the parliament must have present news, 
And therefore say, will you resign or no ? 

Edw. I'll not resign ! but whilst I live be king. 
Traitors be gone, and join with Mortimer. 
Elect, conspire, install, do what you will ; 
Their blood and yours shall seal these treacheries ! 

Bish. This answer we '11 return, and so farewell. 

Lei. Call them again, my lord, and speak them fair ; 
For if they go, the prince shall lose his right. 

Edw. Call thou them back, I have no power to speak. 

Lei. My lord, the king is willing to resign. 

Bish. If he be not, let him choose. 

Edw. U would I might ! but heav'n and earth conspire 
To make mc miserable ! here, receive my crown ; 
Receive it 1 no, these innocent hands of mine 
Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime. 
He of you all that most desires my blood, 
And will be called the murtherer of a king. 
Take it. What, are you mov'd 1 pity you me ? 
Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, 
And Isabel, whose eyes, being turn'd to steel, 
Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. 
Yet stay, for ratlier than I will look on them, 
Here, here ; now sweet God of heav'n, 
Make me despise this transitory pomp, 
And sit for ever inthroniz'd in heav'n ! 
Come death, and with thy fingers close my eyes, 
Or, if I live, let mo forget myself. 

Berkley Castle. The King is left alone with Lightborn, a murderer. 

Edw. Who's there ? what light is that ? wherefore com'st thou ? 

Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news. 

Edw. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks. 
Villain, I know thou com'st to murder me. 

Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord ! 
Far is it from my heart to do you harm. 
The queen sent mc to see how you were used. 
For she rulents at this your misery ; 
And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears, 



26 ENGLISH DUAMATIC POETS. 

^ • ■ 

To see a king in this most piteous state. 

Edw. Weep'st thou already ? list a while to me 
And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's* is, 
Or as Matrevis',* hewn from the Caucasus, 
Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale. 
This dungeon where they keep me is a sink 
Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. 

Light. O villains ! 

Edw. And there, in mire and puddle havff"! stood 
This ten days' space ; and lest that I should sleep, 
One plays continually upon a drum. 
They give me bread and water, being a king ; 
So that, for want of sleep and sustenance, 
-My mind's distemper'd, and my body's numb'd, 
And whether I have limbs or no, I know not. 
'J would my blood drop out from every vein, 
As doth this water from my tattered robes. 
Tell Isabel the queen, I look'd not thus. 
When for her sake I ran at tilt in France, 
And there unhors'd the duke of Cloremoiit. 

Light. O speak no more, my lord ! this breaks my heart. 
Lie on this bed, and rest yourself awhile. 

Edw. These looks of thine can harbor nought but death ! 
1 see my tragedy written in thy brows. 
Vet stay awhile, forbear thy bloody liand, 
And let me see the stroke before it comes, 
L'hat even then when I shall lose my life, 
.My mind may be more stedfast on my God. 

Light. What means your highness to mistrust me thus ? 

Edw. What mcan'st thou to dissemble with me thus ? 

Light. These hands were never stained with innocent blood, 
Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's. 

Edw. Forgive my thought, for having such a thought. 
One jewel have I lefl, receive thou this. 
Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause, 
But every joint shakes as I give it thee. 
O if thou harbor 'st murder in thy heart, 

* His keepers. 



THE RICH JEW OF MALTA. 27 

Let the gift change thy mind, and save thy soul. 
Know tliat I am a king ; Oh, at that name 
I feci a hell of grief. Where is my crown ? 
Gone, gone, and do I still remain alive ? 

Light. You're ovcrwatch'd, my lord, lie down and rest. 

Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep ; 
For not these ten days have these eyelids closed. 
Now as I speak they fall, and yet with fear 
Open again. O wherefore sitt'st thou here ? 

Light. If you mistrust me, I'll be gone, my lord. 

Edw. No, no, for if thou mean'st to murder me, 
Thou wilt return again ; and therefore stay. 

Light. He sleeps. 

Edw. O let me not die ; yet stay, O stay awhile. 

Light. How now, my lord ? 

Edw. Something still buzzeth in mine ears, 
And tells me if I sleep I never wake ; 
This fear is that which makes me tremble thus. 
And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come ? 

Light. To rid thee of thy life ; Matrevis, come. 

Edw. I am too weak and feeble to resist : 
Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul. 

[This tragedy is in a very different style from " mighty Tamburlaine." 
The reluctant pangs of abdicating Royalty in Edward furnished hints which 
Shakspeare scarce improved in his Richard the Second ; and the death- 
scene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond any scene, ancient or 
modern, with which I am acquainted.] 



THE RICH JEW OF MALTA. A TRAGEDY, BY 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 

Barabas, the Rich Jew, in his Counting-house, with heaps of gold before 
him ; in contemplation of his wealth. 

Bar. So that of thus much that return was made ; 
And of the third part of the Persian ships 
There was a venture summ'd and satisfied. 



28 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

As to those Samnites, and the Men of Uzz, 

That bought my Spanish oils and wines of Greece, 

Here have I purst their paltry silverbings. 

Fie, what a trouble 'tis to count this trash ! 

Well fare the Arabians, who so richly pay 

The things they traffic for with wedge of gold, 

Whereof a man may easily in a day 

Tell that, which may maintain him all his life. 

The needy groom, that never finger'd groat, 

Would make a miracle of thus much coin : 

But he whose steel-barr'd coffers are cramm'd full, 

And all his life-time hath been tired. 

Wearying his fingers' ends with telling it. 

Would in his age be loth to labor so, 

And for a pound to sweat himself to death. 

Give-me the merchants of the Indian mines, 

That trade in metal of the purest mould ; 

The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocks 

Without control can pick his riches up, 

And in his house heap pearl like pebble-stones ; 

Receive them free and sell them by the weight, 

Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts, 

Jacinths, hard topas, grass-green emeralds, 

Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds. 

And seld-seen costly stones of so great price 

As one of them, indifferently rated. 

And of a caract of this quality. 

May serve in peril of calamity 

To ransome great kings from captivity. 

This is the ware wherein consists my wealth : 

And thus methinks should men of judgment frame 

Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade, 

And, as their wealth increaseth, so inclose 

Infinite riches in a little room. 

But now how stands the wind ? 

Into what corner peers my Halcyon's bill ? 

Ha ! to the east ? yes : see, how stand the vances ? 

East and by south : why then, I lioi)e my ships, 



THE RICH JEW OF MALTA. 29 

I sent for Egypt and the bordering isles, 
Are gotten up by Nilus' winding banks. 
Mine argosies from Alexandria, 
Loaden with spice and silks, now under sail, 
Are smoothly gliding down by Candy shore 
To Malta, through our Mediterranean sea. 

Certain .Merchants enter, and inform Barabas, that his ships from vari- 
ous ports are safe arrived, and riding in Malta roads. — He descants 
011 the temporal condition of the Jews, how they thrive and attain to 
great worldly prosperity, in spite of the curse denounced against them. 

Thus trolls our fortune in by land and sea, 

And thus are we on every side enrich'd. 

These are the blessings promis'd to the Jews, 

And herein was old Abram's happiness. 

What more may heaven do for earthly man, 

Than thus to pour out plenty in their laps, 

Ripping the bowels of the earth for them, 

Making the sea their servants, and the winds 

To drive their substance with successful blasts ! 

Who hateth me but for my happiness ? 

Or who is honor'd now but for his wealth ? 

Ratiier had I, a Jew, be hated thus, 

Than pitied in a Christian poverty : 

For I can see no fruits in all their faith, 

But malice, falsehood, and excessive pride, 

Which methinks fits not their profession. 

Haply some hapless man hath conscience. 

And for his conscience lives in beggary. 

They say we are a scattered nation : 

I cannot tell ; but we have scrambled up 

More wealth by far than those that brag of faith. 

There's Kirriah Jairim, the great Jew of Greece, 

Obcd in Bairseth, Nones in Portugal, 

Myself in Malta, some in Italy, 

Many in France, and wealthy every one ; 

Aye, wealthier far than any Christian. 

I must confess, we come not to be kings ; 



30 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

That's not our fault ; alas ! our number's few ; 

And crowns come either by succession, 

Or urged by force ; and nothing violent, 

Oft have I heard tell, can be permanent. 

Civo us a peaceful rule ; make Christians kmgs, 

That thirst so much for principality. 

[Marlowe's Jew does not appvoacli so near to Shakspeai-e's as his Edward 
II. does to Richard II. Shylock, in the midst of his savage purpose, is a 
man. His motives, feelingjs, resentments, have something human in them. 
" If you wrong us, sliall we not revenge .'" Barabas is a mere monster, 
brought in with a large painted nose, to please the rabble. He kills in 
sport, poisons whole nunneries, invents infernal machines. He is just such 
an exhibition as a century or two earlier might have been played before the 
Londoners by the Royal command , when a general pillage and massacre of 
the Hebrews had been previously resolved on in the cabinet. It is curious 
to see a superstition wearing out. The idea of a Jew (which our pious 
ancestors contemplated with such horror) has nothing in it now revolting. 
We have tamed the claws of the beast, and pared its nails, and now we take 
it to our arms, fondle it, write plays to flatter it : it is visited by princes, 
atliects a taste, patronises the arts, and is the only liberal and gentleman- 
like thing in Christendom.] 



THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF 
DOCTOR FAUSTUS. BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 

How Faxistvs fell to the study of magic. 
born of parents base of stock 



In Germany, within a town called Rhodes : 

At riper years to Wirtcmberg he went, 

Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. 

So much he profits in Divinity, 

That shortly he was graced with Doctor's name, 

Excelling all. and sweetly can dispute 

In the heavenly matters of theology : 

Till swoln with cunning and a self-conceit. 

His waxen wings did mount above his reach, 

And melting, heaven conspired his overthrow ; 

For falling to a devilisli e.vercise, 



DR. FAUSTUS. 31 



And glutted now with Learning's golden gifts, 
He surli'its on the cursed necromancy. 
Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, 
Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss. 

Faustus, in his study, runs through the circle of the sciences ; and being 
satisfied with none of them, determines to addict himself to magic. 

Faust. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin 
To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess : 
Having commenc'd, be a Divine in show, 
Yet level at the end of every art, 
And live and die in Aristotle's works. 
Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ravish'd jne. 
Bene disserere est finis Logices. 
Is, to dispute well, Logic's chiefest end ? 
Affords this art no greater miracle ? 
Then read no more ; thou hast attained that end. 
A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit. 
Bid Economy farewell : and Galen come. 
Be a physician, Faustus, heap up gold, 
And be eterniz'd for some wond'rous cure. 
Summum bonum mediciiuz sanitas : 
The end of physic is our bodies' health. 
Why, Faustus : hast thou not attain 'd that end ? 
Are not thy bills hung up as monuments. 
Whereby whole cities have escap'd the plague, 
And divers desperate maladies been cured ? 
Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man. 
Couldst thou make men but live eternally. 
Or being dead raise men to life again. 
Then this profession were to be esteem'd. 
Physic, farewell. Where is Justinian ? 
Si una eademque res legatur duobus, 
Alter rem, alter valorem, rei, SfC. 
A petty case of paltry legacies. 
Exhereditari filium non potest pater, nisi, ^c^ 
Such is the subject of the Institute, 
And universal body of the Law. 



;t3 KNdLISlI DUAMA'l'lC I'OKTS. 



This study (its u luciviMuiry (lru(l^(>, 

WJio aims at uotiruij; but ctonml trash, 

Too s(>rvilo rtiul illiluvral for luo. 

WliiMi uU is (lone, Divinity is ln>st. 

.Icnmif's |{il)ii', l'\uistus: viow it \V(>11. 

Stii>tinliiiiii pfcrdli nior.i est : hii ! Sliprml/uiii, <.yc. 

'V\\o rt"\vanl ol'siii is iK'ath : tiiul's hard. 

Si jtricassf iicgiiniii.f, falihiiur, rl iiiiMii f«l. in nobis Veritas. 

H' wo say that \v(i have no sin, wo deceive oil rsolvos, and there is 

no truth in us. 
Wiiy then IteliUe we must sin, anil so consequently die. 
Ay(>, we must die an i>verhisting deatii. 
What doctrine call ytni this ? Che sera sera : 
W'hnt will he shall l)t>. Divinity adieu. 
These Mt>ta|)hysie5J «>f' Magicians, 
And net'romantic hooks, are heaveidy. 
Lines, Circles, Letters, Characters: 
Aye, these are those that Faustus most desires. 

what a world of profit and ilelight. 
Of powtM", of honi)r, of i)nuiipotenee, 
is pronused to the studious arti/un ! 

All things that move between the quiet poles 
{Shall be at my conunand. Kujperors antl Kings 
Are hut obey'd in their several provinces ; 
Hut his dominion that exi-eeils in this, 
Strttchelh as tar as doth tlu> mind of man: 
A sounii Magician is a DtMuigod. 
Here tire my brains to gain a deity. 

****** i<* 

llow an\ I gluttiMl with conceit of this ! 

Shall I make Spirits ti'tch nu> what 1 please ? 

Uesolvc nu' of all ambiguitit^s ? 

riM-t'onu what drspiM'att^ enterj)rises I will ? 

ril bav(> ti)(-iu lly to India (ov gold, 

liausaik tiu> ocean tlir oritMit [)earl. 

And st>ari'h all corniM's of the new-found worlil 

Vov pleasant fruits and princely delicates. 

1 '11 have them read nu^ strange philosophy j 



DR. FAU8TUS. 



And tell the secrets of all foreign kings ; 
I'll have them wall all Germany with brass, 
And with swift Rhine circle all Wirtemberg : 
I '11 have them fill the public schools with skill, 
Wherewith the students shall be bravely clad : 
I '11 levy soldiers with the coin they bring, 
And chase the Prince of Parma from our land ; 
And reign sole king of all the provinces ; 
Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war. 
Than was tlie fiery keel at Antwerp bridge, 
I '11 make my servile Spirits to invent, 
Come, German Valdes, and Cornelius, 
And make me wise with your sage comierence. 

Enter Valdes and Cornelius. 

Faust. Valdes, sweet Valdes, and Cornelius, 
Know that your words have won mc at the last 
To practise magic and concealed Arts. 
Philosophy is odious and obscure : 
Both Law and Physic are for petty wits : 
'Tis Magic, Magic, tiiat halh ravish'd me. 
Then gentle friends aid me in this attempt : 
And I that liave with subtil syllogisms 
Gravell'd the Pastors of the German Church, 
And made the flowering pride of Wirtemberg 
Swarm to my problems, as th' infernal Spirits 
On sweet Musjjeus when he came to hell. 
Will be as cunning as Agrippa was. 
Whose shadow made all Europe honor him. 

Vald. Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our experience, 
Shall make all nations canonize us. 
As Indian Moors ol)ey their Spanish Lords, 
So shall the Spirits of every Element 
Be always serviceable to us three : 
Like Lions shall they guard us when we please ; 
Like Almain Rutters with their horsemen's staves, 
Or Lapland Giants trotting by our sides : 
Sometimes like Women, or unwedded Maids, 
PART I. 4 



M ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Sliailowinrr more beauty in their airy brows 

'riimi luivo the white breasts of the Queen of Love. 

Corn. Tlie nuraoU^s that magic will perform, 
Will n)alve thee vow to stuily nothing else. 
llo that is grounded in astrology, 
Knrieht with tongues, well seen in minerals, 
llalh all the principles magic doth require. 

Faiisi. Come, show me some demonstrations magical, 
Tiwit 1 may conjure in some bushy grove. 
And have these joys in full possession. 

Va/d. Then haste thee to some solitary grove, 
And b(uir wise Bacon's and Albatuis' works, 
The llt>l)it>w Psalter and New Testament j 
And \vlialso(>ver else is nniuisite 
We will inform thee, ere our conference cease. 

Finmtiis liiiiiij; itistructnt in tfic t/tmtnts of ma^ic In/ his friintls J^afJrs 
anil l\>inr/in.i, sr/ls /lis sonl to the liri'il, to fiarr an Ki<il Spirit at his 
connnand for tUHntt/-four years. — IVhrn the t/riirs arc crjiirtd, the 
dfvils c/aini his sonl. 

Faustus — the niglil of his death. Wacsnek, hin Scrvaid. 

Faust. Say, Wagner, thou hast perused my Will, 
ITow dost thou like it ? 

ir<fi,'. Sir, so wondrous will. 
As in all lunnhle duty 1 do yielil 
My life and lasting service lor your love. lExU. 

Thire Scholars cuter. 

Faust. CiranuMvy, Wagner, 
Welcome, (Jentlemen. 

First Sch. Now, worthy Faustus, methinks your looks are 
chang'd. 

Faiist. Oh, (Gentlemen. 

Sec. Sch. ^\' hat ails Faustus? 

Faust. Ah. my sweet elmmber-fellow, had I lived with thee, 
then had 1 lived still, but now must die eternally. Look, Sirs, 
conies lie not ? comes he not ? 

First Sch. Oh, my dear Faustus, what imports this fear? 



DR. FAUSTUS. 35 

Sec. Sch. Is all our pleasure turned to melancholy ? 

Third Sch. He is not well with being over solitary. 

Sec. Sch. If it be so, we will have physicians, and Faustus 
shall be cured. 

Third Sch. 'Tis but a surfeit, Sir; fear nothing. 

Faust. A surfeit of a deadly sin that hath damn'd both body 
and soul. 

Sec. Sch. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven, and remember 
mercy is infinite. 

Faust. But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned. The 
serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus. 

Gentlemen, hear me with patience, and tremble not at my 
speeches. Though my heart pant and quiver to remember that 

1 have been a student here these thirty years. O would I had 
ne'er seen Wirtemberg, never read book ! and what wonders have 
I done, all Germany can witness, yea, all the world : for which, 
Faustus hath lost both Germany and the world : yea, heaven 
itself, heaven the seat of God, the throne of the blessed, the king, 
dom of joy and must remain in hell for ever. Hell, O hell, for 
ever. Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus being in hell 
for ever ? 

Sec. Sch. Yet Faustus call on God. 

Faust. On God whom Faustus hath abjured ? on God whom 
Faustus hath blasphemed ? O my God, I would weep but the 
devil draws in my tears. Gush forth blood instead of tears, yea, 
life and soul. Oh, he stays my tongue : I would lift up my 
hands, but see, they hold 'em, they hold 'em. 

Scholars. Who, Faustus ? 

Faust. Why, Lucifer and Mephostophilis. O gentlemen, I 
gave them my soul for cunning. 

Scholars. O God forbid. 

Faust. God forbid it indeed, but Faustus hath done it : for the 
vain pleasure of four-and-twenty years hath Faustus lost eternal 
joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own blood, the 
date is expired : this is tlie time, and he will fetch me. 

First Sch. Why did not Faustus tell us of this before, that 
Divines might have prayed for thee ? 

Faust. Oft have I thought to have done so ; but the devil 



30 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

threatened to tear me in pieces if I named God ; to fetch me body 
and soul if 1 once gave ear to divinity ; and now it is too late. 
Gentlemen, away, lest you perish with me. 

Sec. Sch. O what may we do to save Faustus ? 

Faust. Talk not of me, but save yourselves and depart. 

Third Sch. God will strengthen me, I will stay with Faustus. 

First Sch. Tempt not God, sweet friend, but let us into the 
next room and pray tor him. 

Faust. Aye, pray for me, pray for me ; and what noise soever 
you hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me. 

Sec. Sch. Pray thou, and we will pray, that God may have 
mercy upon thee. 

Faust. Gentlemen, farewell ; if I live till morning, I'll "visit 
you : if not, Faustus is gone to hell. 

Scho/ars. Faustus, farewell. 

Faustus alone. — The clock strikes eleven. 

Faust. O Faustus, 
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, 
And then thou must be damn'd perpetually. 
Stand still you ever-moving spheres of heaven, 
That time may cease, and midnight never come. 
Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make 
Perpetual day : or let this hour be but 
A year, a month, a week, a natural day 
That Faustus may repent and save his soul. 
O Icnte lenle currite noctis equi. 
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, 
The devil will come, and Faustus nmst be damn'd. 
O 1 will leap to heaven, who pulls me down ? 
See "vhere Christ's blood streams in the firmament: 
One drop of blood will save me ; Oh, my Christ, 
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ. 
Yet will I call on him : O spare me, Lucifer. 
Where is it now ? 'tis gone ? 
And see, a threat'ning arm, and angry brow. 
Mountains and hills come, come, and fall on me, 
And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven. 



DR. FAUSTUS. 37 



No ? then I will headlong run into the earth : 
Gape earth. O no, it will not harbor me. 
You stars that reigned at my nativity. 
Whose influence have allotted death and hell, 
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist 
Into the entrails of yon laboring cloud ; 
That when you vomit forth into the air. 
My limbs may issue from your smoaky mouths, 
But let my soul mount, and ascend to heaven. 

The watch strikes. 
O half the hour is past : 'twill all be past anon. 
O if my soul must sutler for my sin, 
Impose some end to my incessant pain. 
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, 
A hundred tliousand, and at the last be saved : 
No end is limited to damned souls. 
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul ? 
Or why is this immortal that thou hast? 
Oh, Pythagoras, Metempsychosis, were that true, 
This soul should fly from mo, and I be chang'd 
Into some brutish beast. 
All beasts are happy, for when they die. 
Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements ; 
But mine must live still to be plagued in hell. 
Curst be the parents that engender'd me : 
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer, 
That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven. 

The clock strikes twelve. 
It strikes, it strikes ; now, body, turn to air, 
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell. 
O soul, be chang'd into small water drops, 
And fall into the ocean ; ne'er be found. 

Thunder, and enter the Devils. 

O mercy heaven, look not so fierce on me. 
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile : 
Ugly hell gape not : come not Lucifer : 



38 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



I '11 burn my books : Oh Mephostophilis ! 

Hi Jfc * ^ ^ * 

Enter Scholars. 

First Sell. Come gentlemen, let us go visit Faustus, 
For such a dreadful night was never seen 
Since first the world's creation did begin ; 
Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard. 
Pray heaven the Doctor have escaped the danger. 

Sec. Sch. O help us heavens ! see here are Faustus' limbs 
All torn asunder by the hand of death. 

Third Sch. The devil whom Faustus serv'd hath torn him thus : 
For 'twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought 
I heard him shriek, and call aloud for help ; 
At which same time the house seem'd all on firo 
With dreadful horror of these damned fiends. 

Sec. Sch. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end be such 
As every Christian heart laments to think on : 
Yet, for he was a scholar once admired 
For wondrous knowledge in our German schools. 
We'll give his mangled limbs due burial : 
And all the scholars, cloth'd in mourning black, 
Shall wait upon his heavy funeral. 

Chorus. Cut is the branch that might have grown full strait. 
And burned is Apollo's laurel bough 
That sometime grew within this learned man : 
Faustus is gone ! Regard his hellish fall, 
Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise 
Only to wonder at unlawful things : 
Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits 
To practise more than heavenly power permits. 

[The growing horrors of Faustus are awfully marked by the houra and 
half hours as they expire and bring him nearer and nearer to the exactment 
of his dire compact. It is indeed an agony and bloody sweat. 

Marlowe is said to have been tainted with atheistical positions, to have de- 
nied God and the Trinity. To such a genius the history of Faustus must have 
been delectable food : to wander in fields where curiosity is forbidden to go, 
to approach the dark gulf near enough to look in, to be busied in specula- 
tions which are the rottenest part of the core of the fruit that fell from the 



THE HOG HATH LOST HIS PEARL. 39 



tree of knowledge. Barabas the Jew, and Faustus the conjuror, arc ofF- 
eprings of a mind which at least delighted to dally with interdicted subjects. 
They both talk a language which a believer would have been tender of put- 
ting into the mouth of a character though but in fiction. But the holiest 
minds have sometimes not thought it blamcable to counterfeit impiety in 
the person of another, to bring Vice in upon the stage speaking her own 
dialect, and, themselves being armed with an Unction of self-confident 
impunity, have not scrupled to handle and touch that familiarly which 
would be death to others. Milton, in the person of Satan, has started 
speculations hardier than any which the feeble armory of the atheist ever 
furnished : and the precise, strait-laced Richardson has strengthened Vice, 
from the mouth of Lovelace, with entangling sophistries and abstruse pleas 
against her adversary Virtue, which Sedley, Villiers, and Rochester wanted 
depth of libertinism sufficient to have invented."] 



THE HOG HATH LOST HIS PEARL; A COMEDY, BY ROBERT 

TAILOR. 

Carracus appoints Ms friend Albert to meet him before the break of day 
at the house of the old Lord Wealthy, whose daughter Maria has con- 
sented to a stolen match with Carracus. — Albert, arriving before his 
friend, is mistaken by Maria for Carracus, and takes advantage of 
the night to wrong his friend. 

Enter Albert, solvs. 
Alb. This is the green, and this the chamber-window ; 
And see, the appointed light stands in the casement, 
The ladder of ropes set orderly, 
Yet he that should ascend, slow in his haste, 
Is not as yet come hither. 
Were it any friend that lives but Carracus, 
I'd try the bliss which this fine time presents. 
Appoint to .carry hence so rare an heir, 
And be so slack ! 'sfoot it doth move my patience. 
Would any man that is not void of sense 
Not have watch'd night by night for such a prize ? 
Her beauty's so attractive, that by Heaven 
My heart half grants to do my friend a wrong. 
Forego these thoughts, Albert, be not a slave 
To thy affection ; do not falsify 



40 ENGLISH DRAMATIC PO^TS. 



Thy faith to him whose only friendship's worth 
A world of women. He is such a one, 
Thou canst not live without his good, 
He is and was ever as thine own heart's blood. 

[^Maria beckons him from the window, 

'Sfoot, see, she beckons me for Carracus. 

Shall my base purity cause me neglect 

This present happiness ! I will obtain it, 

Spite of my timorous conscience. I am in person, 

Habit and all, so like to Carracus, 

It may be acted and ne'er call'd in question. 

Mar. (calls) Hist ! Carracus, ascend : 
All is as clear as in our hearts we wish'd. 

[^Albert ascends, and being on the top of the ladder puts 
out the candle. 

Mar. O love, why do you so ? 

Alb. I heard the steps of some coming this way. 
Did you not hear Albert pass by as yet ? 

Mar. Not any creature pass this way this hour. 

Alb. Then he intends just at the break of day 
To lend his trusty help to our departure. 

Mar. Come then, dear Carracus, thou now shalt rest 
Upon that bed whei'e fancy oft hath thought thee ; 
Which kindness until now I ne'er did grant thee, 
Nor would I now but that thy loyal faith 
I have so often tried ! even now 
Seeing thee come to that most honor'd end. 
Through all the dangers which black night presents, 
For to convey me hence and marry me. \They go in. 

Enter Carracus, to his appointment. 
Car. How pleasing are the steps we lovers make. 
When in the paths of our content we pace, 
To meet our longings ! what happiness it is 
For man to love ! but oh, what greater bliss 
To love and be belov'd ! O what one virtue 
E'er reign'd in me, that I should be enrich'd 



THE HOG HATH LOST HIS PEARL. 41 

With all earth's good at once ? I have a friend, 

Selected by the heavens as a gift 

To make me happy whilst I live on earth ; 

A man so rare of goodness, firm of faith, 

That earth's content must vanish in his death. 

Then for my love and mistress of my soul, 

A maid of rich endowments, beautified 

With all the virtues nalure could bestow 

Upon mortality, who this happy night 

Will make me gainer of her heavenly self. 

And see, how suddenly I have attain 'd 

To the abode of my desired wishes ! 

This is the green ; how dark the night appears ! 

I cannot hear the tread of my true friend. 

Albert ! hist, Albert ! — he's not come as yet, 

Nor is the appointed light set in the window. 

What if I call Maria ? it may be 

She feai'ed to set a light, and only heark'neth 

To hear my steps ; and yet I dare not call, 

Lest I betray myself, and that my voice, 

Thinking to enter in the ears of her, 

Be of some other heard : no, I will stay 

Until ihe coming of my dear friend Albert. 

But now think, Carracus, what end will be 

Of this thou dost determine : thou art come 

Hither to rob a father of that wealth 

That solely lengthens his now drooping years. 

His virtuous daughter, and all (of that sex) left 

To make him happy in his aged days. 

The loss of her may cause him to despair. 

Transport his near-decaying sense to frenzy, 

Or to some such abhorred inconveniency 

Whereto frail age is subject. I do ill in this, 

And must not think but that a father's plaint 

Will move the heavens to pour forth misery 

Upon the head of disobediency. 

Yet reason tells us, parents are o'erseen. 

When with too strict a rein they do hold in 



42 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Their child's affections, and control that love 

Which the high powers divine inspire them with; 

Wlien in their shallowest judgments they may know, 

Affection crost brings misery and wo. 

But whilst I run contemplating on this, 

1 sol'lly pace to my desired bliss. 

I'll go into the next field, where my friend 

Told me the horses were in readiness. [^Exit. 

Albert descending from Makia. 

Mar. But do not stay. What if you find not Albert ? 

Alb. I'll then return alone to fetch you lience. 

Mar. If you should now deceive me, having gain'd 
What you men seek for 

Alb. Sooner I'll deceive 
My soul — and so I fear I have. [Aside. 

Mar. At your first call I will descend. 

Alb. Till when, this touch of lips be the true pledge 
Of Carracus' constant true devoted love. 

Mar. Be sure you stay not long ; farewell. 
I cannot lend an ear to hear you part. [Maria goes in. 

Alb. But you did lend a hand unto my entrance. 

[He descends. 

Alb. (solus) How have I wrong'd my friend, my faithful friend ! 
Robb'd him of what's more precious than liis blood. 
His earthly heaven, the unspotted honor 
Of his soul-joying mistress ! the fruition of whose bed 
I yet am warm of; whilst dear Carracus 
Wanders tins cold night through the unshelt'ring field 
Seeking me, treach'rous man, yet no man neither. 
Though in an outward show of such appearance. 
But am a dev'l indeed, for so this deed 
Of wronged love and friendship rightly makes me. 
I may compare my friend to one that's sick. 
Who, lying on his death-bed, calls to him 
Mis dearest-thought friend, and bids him go 
To some rare-gifted man that I'an restore 
His former health j this his friend sadly hears^ 



THE HOG HATH LOST HIS PEARL. « 48 



And vows with protestations to fulfil 

His wisli'd desires witli his best performance ; 

But then no sooner seeing that the death 

Of liis sick friend would add to him some gain, 

Goes not to seek a remedy to save, 

But like a wretch hides him to dig his grave ; 

As I have done for virtuous Carracus. 

Yet, Albert, be not reasonless to indanger 

What thou may'st yet secure. Wlio can detect 

The crime of thy licentious appetite ? 

I hear one's pace ; 'tis surely Carracus. 

Enter Carracus. 
• Car. Not find my friend ! sure some malignant planet 
Rules o'er this night, and envying the content 
Which I in thought possess, debars me thus 
From what is more than happy, the lov'd presence 
Of a dear friend and love. 

Alb. 'Tis wronged Carracus by Albert's baseness : 
I have no power now to reveal myself. 

Car. The horses stand at the appointed place. 
And night's dark coverture makes firm our safety. 
My friend is surely fall'n into a slumber 
On some bank hereabouts ; I will call him. 
Friend, Albert, Albert. 

Alb. Whate'er you are that call, you know my name. 

Car. Aye, and thy heart, dear friend. 

IMaria appears above. 

Mar. My Carracus, are you so soon return'd ? 
I see, you'll keep your promise. 

Car. Who would not do so having past it thee, 
Cannot be fram'd of aught but treachery. 
Fairest, descend, that by our hence departing 
We may make firm the bliss of our content. 

Mar. Is your friend Albert with you ? 

Alb. Yes, and your servant, honor'd Lady. 

Mar. Hold me from falling, Carracus. [She descends. 

Car. Come, fair Maria, the troubles of this night 



■It « KNCl.lSll DU AIM A TK' I'OETS. 



Art' lis tiirt'-nmi\("rs to fiisuiiij;' pKuisiiri's. 
And, iiol>l(> IViciid, altluni«i;h iu)w Curraims 
Si>oms, ill {\\o ••aiiiing otihis houult'Diis i)ri/.t>. 
To kt>t>|) iVoMi yi>ii st> imu'li ol his lovM tii'asui(>, 
W'hirli oujilit iu)l to hv iuixt>(l ; \v\ his lunirt 
Shall so Car slrivt' in your wishM happiness, 
That it'lh(> loss and ruin ol"itst>lf 
Can liul avail your j^ood — 

.!//'. (> iVitMid, no nioro ; ot>nit>, you uiv slow in haste. 
I''rii'ndship ou^ht ntnt>r ht^ disi-ussM in words, 
Till all hi-r dtn-ds Ix' liuishM. Wlio, KH>kinii; in a hoi>k, 
And reads hut soni(> part of it only, cuiuiot judjjfo 
\\ hat praise tin* whole deserves, beeiuise his knowledj^o 
Is ijroundtvl hut on part — us thine, fVientl, is, • 

liinorant otthat l>laek niisehiet" I have done thee. 

[.7.v/(/f. — K.rfiint. 

jUbrrt. a/ttr thf iiKirrittiir of Carraciin, struck tcith icmorsf /or the 
injiiri/ he hiis itonr to his frirntl, knocks at Carrticiis's tioor, but 
ninttot summon rmotution to see him, or to do more than inquire (ifter 
his tve(/'are. 

:\U>. Conscienop, thou hortvr unto wieked nion, 
W hen wilt thou eeiise thy all-atllietinii wmth. 
And set my soul free trout the luhyriutli 
C>tthy tornientii'.ii; lerix>r ? (.> but it tits not ! 
Should I desire redress, or wish tor eouit'ort, 
'IMiat havt> i-ouunitted an aet st> inhunuin, 
M>le to till Shanie's spueious ehrouiele ? 
\\\\o hut a dauuiM one eouKl have done like nie I 
Uohlt'il n>y dear friend it\ a short moment's time 
Of his love's high-pri/'il jiem of ehustity : 
That w hieh so many years himself hath staid for. 
llow idlen hath he, as he lay in bed, 
Swt>etly diseours'd to nio of his IMaria ! 
And with what pleasing passions did he sutfer 
Love's i^entle war-siege: then he wouUl relate 
llow he first eanie unto her fair eyes' view ; 
llow loui>; it was e'er sJio could bixnik atfection ; 



•lllE HOC. HATH LOST HIS PHARL. 45 



And then how constant she did still abide. 

I tlwn at this would joy, as if" my hroast 

Had synipatliized in oqual htti)j)in('ss 

With my true friend, but now, when joy should be, 

Who but a damn'd one would have done like nio ? 

lie hath boon niarriod now at loast a month; 

In all which time I have not once boluild him. 

This is his house. 

I'll call to know his health, but will not see him ; 

My looks would then betray mo, for, should he ask 

My cause of scemin<( sadness or the like, 

[ could nirt hut reveal, and so pour on 

Worse unto ill, which breeds confusion. [//e knocks. 

A Servant, opens. 

Alb. Is the master of llu; house within ? 

Scrv- Y(;.s, marry, is he, sir: would you speak with him? 

Alb. My busiuess is not so troui)]esoiue : 
Is he in health with his late espoused wife ? 

Serv. Both are exceed injf well, sir. 

Alb. I am truly glad on't : farewell, jfood fri(!nd. 

Serv. I pray you, let's crave your name, sir; 1 may else have 
anger. 

Ath. You may say, one Albert, riding by this way, oidy in- 
quired their healtli. 

Serv. I will acquaint so much. [Exit Servant. 

Alb. How lik(! a poisonous doctor have I come 
To inquire their welfare, knowing that myself 
Have giv'n the |)otion (jf tiicir ne'er-recovery ; 
For which 1 will alllict myself with torture ever. 
And since the earth yields not a remedy 
Able to salve the sores my lust hath made, 
I'll now take farewell of society. 
And the abode of men, to entertain a life 
Fitting my fellowship in desarl woods, 
Where beasts like me consort ; there may I live. 
Far off from wronging virtuous Carracus. 
There's no Maria, thai shall satisfy 



46 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

My hateful lust ; the trees shall shelter 

This wretched trunk of mine, upon whose barks 

I will engrave the story of my sin. 

And there this short breath of" mortality 

I'll finish up in that repentant state, 

Where not the allurements of earth's vanities 

Can e'er o'ertake me : there's no baits for lust, 

No friend to ruin ; I shall then be free 

From practising the art of treachery. 

Thither then, steps, where such content abides, 

Where pcnitency not disturb'd may grieve. 

Where on each tree and springing plant I'll carve 

This heavy motto of my misery. 

Who but a damned one couhl have done like me ? 



THE TRAGEDY OF NERO. AUTHOR UNCERTAIN 

Scenical Personation. 
'Tis better in a play 
Be Agamemnon, than himself indeed. 
How oil, with danger of the field beset, 
Or with home-mutinies, would he un-be 
Himself; or, over cruel altars weeping. 
Wish, that with putting off a vizard he 
Might his true inward sorrow lay aside ' 
The show s of things are better than themselves, 
How doth it stir tliis airy part of us 
To hear our poets tell imagin'd fights 
And the strange blows that feigned courage gives. 
When I Achilles hear upon the Stage 
Speak honor and the greatness of his soul, 
Methinks I too could on a Plirygian spear 
Run boldly, and make tales for after times : 
But when we come to act it in the deed. 
Death mars this bravery, and the ugly fears 
Of th' other world sit on the proudest brow : 
And boasting valor loseth his red cheek. 



TUH MERRY DKVIJ. OK KUMONTON. 47 



THE MERRY DEVIL OP EDMONTON. 
AUTHOR UNCERTAIN.* 

Millisent, the fair daughter of Clare, was betrothed, with the consent of 
her parents, to Raymond, son of Mounchensey ; but the elder Moun- 
chensey, being since fallen in his fortunes, Clare revokes his consent 
and plots a muniage Jor his daughter with the rich heir of Jerning- 
ham. Peter Fahel, a good magician, loho had been Tutor to young 
Raymond Mounchensey at College, determines by the aid of his art to 
assist his ptipil in obtaining fair Millisent. 

Pkter Fabel, solus. 
Fab. Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill, 
That for thy bounty and thy royal parts. 
Thy kind alliance should be held in .scorn ; 
And after all the.se promises by Clare, 
Refuse to give his daughter to thy son. 
Only because thy revenues cannot reach 
To make her dowagc of so rich a jointure, 
As can the heir of wealtiiy Jerningham ? 
And therefore is the false fox now in hand 
To strike a match betwixt her and the other. 
And the old grey-beards now are close together, 
Plotting in the garden. Is it even so? 
Raymond Mounchensey, boy, have thou and I 
Thus long at Cambridge read the liberal arts, 
The metaphysics, magic, and those parts 
Of the most secret deep philosophy ? 
Have 1 so many melancholy nights 
Watch'd on the top of Peter House highest tower? 
And come we back unto our native home. 
For want of skill to lose the wench thou lovest ? 
We'll first hang Envilf in such rings of mist. 
As never rose from any dampish fen ; 
I'll make the brinish sea to rise at Ware, 
And drown the marshes unto Stratford bridge ; 

* It ha.s been ascribed without much proof to Shakspeare, and to Michael 
Drayton, 
t Eufield. 



48 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



I'll drive the deer from Waltham in their walks, 
And scatter them like sheep in every field. 
Wo may })L'rIiaps ho crost ; hut if wc be, 
Ho shall cross tiio tlovil that hut crosses me. 
JUit here comes Raymoiul, disconsolato and sad ; 
And here comes the gallant must have his wench. 

Enter Raymond Mounchensey, young Jerningham, ana 
young Clare. 

Jcrn. I prithee, Raymond, leave those solemn dumps, 
Ivovivo thy spirits ; thou that before hast been 
More watchful than the day-proclaiming cock, 
As sportive as a kid, as frank and merry 
As mirth herself. — 

If aught in me may thy content jn-oeure, 
It is thy own, thou mayst thyself assure. 

liai/ni. Ha! Jorningham, if any but thyself 
Had sjioke that word, it would have come as cold 
As the bleak northern winds upon the face of winter, 
From thee they have some power on my blood ; 
Yet being from thoe, had but that hollow sound 
Come from the lips of any living man, 
It might have won the creilit of mine ear, 
From thee it cannot. 

Jern. If I understand thee 1 am a villain : 
What ! dost thou speak in parables to thy friend ; 

Fab. {to Jern.) You are the man, sir, must have MilHsent, 
The match is making in the garden now ; 
Her jointure is agreed on, and the old men, 
Your fathers, mean to launch their pursy bags, 
But in mean time to tiu'ust Mounchensey off. 
For color of this new intended match. 
Fair MilHsent to Cheston* nmst be sent. 
To take the approbation of a Nun. 
Ne'er look upon me, lad, the match is done. 

Jiem. Raymond Mounchensey, now I touch thy grief 
With the true feeling of a zealous friend. 

* Cheshunt. 



TlIK MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON. 40 



And as for thy iliir beauteous Millisent, 
With my vain breatli I will not sook to slubber 
llor angel-like perfections. But thou know'st 
That Essex hath the saint tliat I adore. 
Where'er didst meet me, that we two were jovial, 
But like a wag thou hast not laughed at me, 
And with regardless jesting mock'd my love ? 
How many a sad and weary summer's night 
My sighs have drunk the dew from olFthe earth. 
And I have taught the nightingale to wake, 
And from the meadows s|)rung the early lark 
An hour before she should have list to sing ? 
I have loaded the poor mimites witli my moans, 
That I have made the heavy slow pac'd hours 
To hang like heavy clogs upon the day. 
But, dear Mounchensey, had not my allection 
Sei/.'d on the beauty of another dame, 
Before I'd wrong the chase, and h-ave the love 
Of one so worthy, and so true a friend, 
I will abjure both beauty and her sight, 
And will in love become a counterfeit. 

Raym. Dear Jerningham, thou hast begot my life, 
And from the mouth of hell, where now I sat, 
I feel my spirit rebound against the stars; 
Thou hast conquei'd me, dear friend, and my free soul 
Nor time nor death can by their power control. 

Fah. Fraidc Jerningham, thou art a gallant boy ; 
And were he not my pupil, I would say. 
He were as fine a mc^tal'd Gentleman, 
Of as free a sj)irit, and as line a temper, 
As any in England ; and he is a man, 
That very richly may deserve thy love. 
But, noble Clare, this while of our discourse. 
What may Mounchonsey's honor to thyself 
Exact upon the measure of thy grace ? 

Cla. Raymond Mounchensey, I would have thee know, 
He does not breathe this air. 
Whose love I cherish, and whose soul I love, 
PART I. 5 



50 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

More than Mounchensey's : 

Nor ever in my life did see the man, 

Whom for his wit, and many virtuous parts, 

I think more worthy of my sister's love. 

But since the matter grows into tlii& pass, 

[ must not seem to cross my father's will ; 

But when thou list to visit her by night. 

My horse is saddled, and the stable door 

Stands ready for thee ; use them at thy pleasure. 

In honest marriage wed her frankly, boy ; 

And if thou getst her, lad, God give thee joy. 

Raym. Then care away ! let fate my fall pretend, 
Back'd with the favors of so true a friend. 

Fah. Let us alone to bustle for the set : 
For age and craft witli wit and art hath met. 
I'll make my Spirits dance such nightly jigs 
Along the way 'twixt this and Tot'nam Cross, 
The Carriers' Jades shall cast their heavy packs, 
And the strong hedges scarce shall keep them in. 
The milk-maids' cuts shall turn the wenches off, 
And lay their dossers tumbling in the dust : 
The frank and merry London Prentices, 
That come for cream and lusty country cheer, 
Shall lose their way, and scrambling in the ditches 
All night, shall whoop and hollow, cry, and call. 
And none to other find the way at all. 

Raym. Pursue the project, scholar ; what we can do 
To help endeavor, join our lives thereto.* 

* This scene has much of Shakspeare's manner in the sweetness and 
goodnaturedness of it. It seems written to make the reader happy. Few 
of our dramatists or novelists have attended enough to this. They torture 
and wound us abundantly. They are economists only in delight. Nothing 
can be finer, more gentlemanlike, and noble, than the conversation and 
compliments of these young men. How delicious is Raymond Mounchen- 
sey's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerningham has a " Saint in Essex:" and 
how sv^'eetly his friend reminds him ! — I wish it could be ascertained that 
Michael Drayton was the author of this piece : it would add a worthy ap- 
pendage to the renown of that Panegyrist of my native Earth ; who has 
gone over her soil (in iiis Polyolbion) with the fidelity of a herald, and the 



THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON. fll 

The Prioress of Chestoii's clmrge to fair Milliseni. 
Jesus' daughter, Mary's child, 
Holy matron, woman mild, 
For thee a Mass shall still be said, 
Every sister drop a bead 
And those again, succeeding them, 
For you shall sing c Requiem. 

To her Father. May your soul be blithe, 
That so truly pay your tythe ; 
He, that many children gave, 
'Tis fit that he one child should have. 

To Millisent. Then, fair virgin, hear my spell, 
For 1 must your duty tell. 
First at mornings take your book. 
The glass wherein yourself must look ; 
Your young thoughts so proud and jolly 
Must be turn'd to motions holy ; 
For your busk, attires and toys. 
Have your thoughts on heavenly joys : 
And for all your follies past. 
You must do penance, pray and fast. 
You shall ring the sacring bell, 
Keep your hours, and tell your knell. 
Rise at midnight to your matins. 
Read your psalter, sing your Latins ; 
And when your blood shall kindle pleasure, 
Scourge yourself in plenteous measure. 
You must read the morning mass, 
You must creep unto the cross. 
Put cold ashes on your head. 
Have a hair-cloth for your bed. 
Bind your beads and tell your needs. 
Your holy Aves and your Creeds ; 
Holy maid, tiiis must be done, 
If you mean to live a Nun. 

painful love of a son ; who has not left a rivulet (so narrow that it may be 
stept over) without honorable mention ; and has animated Hills and 
Streams with life and passion above the dreams O/ old mythology. 



52 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



GRKENVS TU QUOQUE ; OR, THE CITY GALLANT. A COMEDY. 
BY JOSEPH COOKE. 

Men more niggardly of their love than women. 
Thrice happy days they were, and too soon gone, 
When as tlic licart was coupled with tlie tongue ; 
And no deceitful flattery, or guile 
Ihmg on the lover's tear-coniniixed smile. 
CoiM women learn but that imperiousness, 
i{y which men use to stint our iiap])iness 
(When they have purchas'd us for to be theirs 
l?y customary siglis and forced tears) 
'Vo give us bits of kindness, lest we faint, 
Hut no abundance ; tiiat we ever want, 
And still are begging : which too well they know 
hiudears allection, and dotii nialce it grow. 
I lad we those sleights, how happy were we then 
Tliat we might glory over love-sick men ! 
lUit arts we know not, nor have any skill 
To fiMgn a sour look to a pleasing will ; 
Nor couch a secret love in show of hate : 
But, if we like, must be compassionate.* 

Aih>ersity. 
How ruthless men are to adversity ! 
My acquaintance scarce will know me ; when we meet 
They cannot stay to talk, they must be gone ; 
And shake me by the hand as if I burnt them. 

Prodigality. 
That which gilded over his imperfections. 
Is wasted and consumed, even like ice, 
Which by the vehemence of heat dissolves, 
And glides to many rivers ; so his wealth, 
Tiuit ll'll a prodigal hand, hot in expense, 
INIelted witliin his gripe, and from his coders 
Ran like a violent stream to other men's. 

• This is so liko Shalvspparo, that one sooins almost to remember it as a 
spooch of Deadcmona's, upon porceivinu; an alteration in the behavior of tho 
Moor. 



OLD i'ORTUNATUS. 83 



THE COMEDY OF OLD FORTTINATUS. BY THOMAS DECKER. 

Tfic (hxIdrsH I'oiliiiir iijiprarn to Fortimiiliis, anil offers him the choice of 
six thiuffs. lie chooses Riches. 

FORTUNK. FoiM'l/NATlJS. 

Forluuc. lli'foro thy soul at tliis (l('(!|) lottory 
Draw ("oitli her pri/.o, onliiinM l)y (icsliiiy, 
Know lliut liero's no rouanliiif^ a (irst clioico. 
Cliooso tIjoM (liscrnctly : for tho laws of fato, 
Boiriff ^rav'n in stool, muHt ataiuJ inviolate. 

Forlunnl. Uiiw^UU'VH ofJov*! and tlio imbloniiHli'd Nif^lit, 
Most riuhicoiiH i'arcjn, }fui(l(! my ^(rnius rijflit: 
Wisdom, Slrcii^Mli, llcultii, IJoauty, Lonj^ Lif'o, and iliclios. 

Forlunr. Slay, Fortunatus ; onoo moro hear mo speak. 
If thou kiss Wisdom's cheok and make lier tiiino, 
Slut'U hrcatiif! into tiiy lips divinity, 
And tiiou (lik(! JMuiihiis) sliall spoak oracle ; 
Thy licav'n-inspircd soul on Wisdom's winj^s 
Shall fly up to tho I'arliamont of Jove, 
And read the Statutes of Eternity, 
And see what's |)ast and U'urn what is to come. 
If thou lay claim to Strength, armicss sliall (|uake 
'iV) see tlicc! frown : as Kin<fs at mine do lio. 
So shall thy feet trample on empery. 
Make Health thine object, thou shalt be strong proof 
'CJainst tho deep searchinfr darts of surfeiting, 
Bo over merry, ever revellinj^. 
Wish i)ut for Heauty, an<l within thine eyes 
Two naked ('iipi<ls amorously shall swim. 
And on thy cheeks I'll mix such white and rod, 
That .love shall turn away yonnp; (Janimedo, 
And with immortal arms shall circle thee. 
Are thy desires fionj^ Life? thy vilal tlin^ad 
Shall he streteh'd out, thou shalt hrhold tlw! change 
Of monarchies, and see those childrcin <li(! 
Whose great great grandsires now in cradles lio. 
If through (joM's sacred hunger thou dost pine ; 



f)! ENGLISH DRAMATIC POPH'S. 



Those gilded wantons which in swarms do run 
To warm tlieir slender bodies in (he sun, 
Sluill stand lor number of those golden piles 
Which in rich pride shall swell before thy feet : 
As those are, so shall tliese bo infinite. 

luniiiiKi/. O whither am I wrapt beyond myself? 
More violent conllicls light in every thouglit 
Than his whose fatal choice Troy's downfall wrought. 
Shall I contract myself to Wisdom's love ? 
Then I lose Riches; and a wise man poor 
Is like a sacred book that's never read ; 
To liimself lie lives and to all else seems denil. 
This age thinks better of a gilded fool, 
Than of a tlu'cadbare saint in Wisdom's school. 
1 will be Strong : then I refuse Long Life ; 
And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds, 
Tiiere's a lean fellow beats all conquerors : 
The greatest Strength expires with loss of breath, 
'J'he mightiest in one minute stoop to death. 
Then take Long Life, or Health ; should I do so, 
I might grow ugly, and that tedious scroll 
Of montlis and years nnicli misery might enroll : 
Therefore I'll bi>g for Beauty ; yet I will not : 
The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul 
liCprous as sin itself, than hell more foul. 
The Wisdom of this world is idiotism ; 
Strengtli a week reed ; Health Sickness' enemy, 
And it at length will have the victory. 
Beauty is but a painting ; and Long Life 
Is a long journey in December gone, 
Tedious and full of tribulation, 
Therefore dread sacred l^iUipress, make me rich : 
My choice is Store of Ciold ; tiie Rich are Wise, 
lie that upon his back rich garments wears 
Is Wise, though on his head grow Midas' ears, 
(.lold is tlie Strength, the Sinews of the world, 
Tlie Health, the Soul, the Beauty most divine ; 
A u.i.^K I f gold hides all deformities ; 



OLD FORTIJNATU.S. 55 

Gold is heaven's physic, life's restorative ; 
Oh therefore make mo Rich. 

Fortune gives to Fortunatii^ a purse that is inexhaustible. With this he 
puts on costly attire, and visits all the Jlsian Courts, where he is ca- 
ressed ami inailr jniirh of for his infinite wealth. At Hahylon he is 
.•<h<iwn 1)1/ the Soldan a iiumdrous hat, which in a wish transports the 
wearer irhithersoever he pleases, over land and sea. Fortutiatus puts it 
on, nushes himself at home in Cyprus ; where he arrives in a minute, 
as his sons Atnpedo and Jlndelocia are talking of him ; and tells his 
Travels. 

FORTUNATUS. AmPEDO. AnDELOCIA. 

Fort. Touch me not, boys, I am nothing but air, let none speak 
to me till you have marked me well. — Am I as you are, or am I 
transformed ? 

And. Methinks, father, you look as you did, only your face is 
more withered. 

Fort. Boys, be proud ; your father hath the wliolo world in tliis 
compass. I am all felicity up to the brims. In a minute am 1 
come from Babylon j [ have been this half hour in Farmagosta. 

And. How ! in a minute, fatlier ? I see travellers must lie. 

Fort. I have cut through the air like a falcon. I would have 
it seem strange to you. But 'tis true. 1 would iif)t havn you 
boliove it neither. But 'tis miraculous and true. Desire to see 
you brought me to Cyprus. I'll leave you more gold, and go to 
visit more countries. 

Avip. The frosty hand of age now nips your blood. 
And strews her snowy flowers upon your head. 
And gives you warning that within k\v years 
Death needs nmst marry you : those short lines, minutes, 
That dribble out your life, must needs be spent 
In peace, not travel ; rest in Cyprus then. 
Could you survey ten worlds, yet you must die ; 
And i)ifter is the sweet that's reaped thereby. 

And. Faith, father, what pleasure have you met by walking 
your stations ? 

Fort. What pleasure, boy ? I have revelled with Kings, 
danced with tiueens, dallied with Ladies; worn strange attires; 



Art ENGLISH DllAMATlC POETS. 



s(>on Fnnlasticoos ; convorsod with Humorists ; been ravished 
with tliviiio rai)Hircs of Doric, liydian aiul Plirygian liarmonios; 
1 luvvo spcMl the (lay in triuniplis and the iii<,flit in l)aM(inftting. 

And. Oram: this was hcnivcnly. — lit' that wouhi not ho an 
Arai>inii I'lurnix to hum in tlicso swoct tires, let liiui livt> likt> an 
owl (or tho world to wonder at. 

A mil. Why, hrother, are not all those Vanities ? 

l'\)ii. Vanities ! Ampedo, tliy soul is made of lead, too dull, 
too pondtM-ons, to mount up to the ineomprelu^nsihle tflory that 
Travel lifls men to. 

And. Sweeten mine ears, {food lather, with some more. 

Fort. When in the warmth of mine own country's arms 
We yawuM like slui;<i;ards, when this small horizon 
Imprison'd up my hody, tht>n mini> eyes 
Worshipp'd these clouds as hrij^htest : hut, my hoys, 
The jfli.st'ring beams which do abroad appear 
In other heavens, lire is not half so clear, 
l-'or still in all the regions I have seen, 
I seornVl to crowd anuMig tht> nuiddy throng 
Of th(> raid\ nndtituih*, whose thicU<>n'd hn^alh 
(liike to contlensed fogs) do choke that beauty, 
Which else would dwell in every Kingdom's cheek. 
No ; I still boldly stopt into their Courts: 
Kor ihtM'e to livi> 'tis rare, O 'tis divine, 
'IMitMe shall you see liiees angelic-al ; 
'i'li(>rt> siiall you see troo[)s of chaste Goddesses, 
Whose star-like eyes have power (might they still shine) 
To make night day, and day more crystalline. 
Near these you shall behold great Heroes, 
White-headed (^)vnu'iUors, and .lovial Spirits, 
Standing like fiery (Cherubim to guaril 
Till" monareh, who in godlike glory sits 
In midst of these, as if this deity 
lliid with a look created a new world, 
The slanders by being the fair workmanship. 

uind. Oh how my soul is rapt to a Third lleavcMi! 
I'll travtd sure, and \i\v with none but Kings. 

Amp. Hut tell me, father, havt> you in all (\Mirls 



t>LL) I'OllTUWATU.S. 67 



Beheld such glory, so rnajestical, 
In all perfection, no way bloinishod ? 

Fort. Ill soino Courts sliall you hoo Ambition 
Sit, |)i('ciii<r Djndiilus's old wax(!ii wings ; 
Hut l)('iii<r (dupt on, und llioy about to fly, 
I'iVon when tbcir bopcs aro busied in tlic clouds, 
They melt again the sun of Maj(!sty, 
And down they tumble to destruction. 
Hy travel, boys, 1 buve seen all th(!sn things. 
Fantastic (^'onipliiiicnl stalks up and down, 
Trickt in oullandisli feathers ; all liis words, 
[lis looks, his oaths, are all ridiculous. 
All apish, childish, and Italianate. * * * 

Orlrufis to /lis frinid (Itillou^ny ihfnids the passion with which {being 
n jnisotirr in the Kn fetish /iing\i court) he ia enamored to frenzy of 
the /(inf!;'s duiiffhltT Jlgripyna. 

OllLJiANS. (lAM.OWAV. 

Orl. Tiiis nnisic makes rnc l)ut more out of tune. 
O Agri|)yiia. 

Gal/. (i(Mitle IVieiid, no more. 
Thou say'st Love is a madness : hate it then. 
Even for the name's sake. 

Orl. O I love that madness, 
Even for th(! name's sake. 

Gall, lict me tame tliis frenzy. 
By telling thee tliou art a prisoner here, 
By telling tiiee she's daughter to u King, 
By telling thee the King of Cyprus' son 
Shines like; a sun b(?tween hf!r looks and thine. 
Whilst thou se(!m'st but a star to Agripync;. 
Ho lov(^s licr. 

Orl. II' li(! do, why so do I. 

Gall. Love is ambitious and loves Miijesty. 

Orl. Dear friend, thou art d(!(;(iv'<l : Lover's voice doth sing 
As sweetly in a beggar as a king. 

Gall. Dear fri(!nd, thou artdeceiv'd : () bid thy soul 
Lift up her intellectual eycss to heaven. 



f)S ENGLiail 1)U/VMA'J'10 POliTS. 

And in this ample book of wonders read, 
(.){' wiuit celi'stiul uiDiild, what sucreil essence', 
1 lor scdf is loruiM : the scuroh whoroof will drive 
Sounds nuisioal among liie jarring spirits, 
And in sweet tune set that whieli none inlierils. 

Orl. I'll gaze on heaven ifAgripyne bo there. 
If not: fa, la, la, Sol, la, «Sic. 

(r(j//. O call this madnovss in : see, from the windows 
C)|' overy eye DtMision thrusts out cheeks 
Wrinkhnl with idiot laugi>l(M- ; every fmger 
Is like a dart shot from tlio liand of Scorn, 
By whioli thy name is hurt, thy honor torn. 

Or/, liaugh they at me, sweet Galloway? 

it(i/I. I'iVen at thet«. 

Orl. I la, lia, 1 laugh at tiiem : are lii(>y not mad, 
That 1(<I my true true sorrow make tlieui glad? 
1 dance mid sing oidy to angor Grief, 
'.rhat in his anger he might smite life down 
With his iron list: good heart! it s(>emeth then, 
They laugli to see grief kill n»e : O iond Men, 
You laugh at others' tears ; when others smile. 
You tear yourselves in pieces ; vilo, vile, vile, 
lia, ha, when 1 behold a swarm of Fools 
(^rowiiing together to be et)unted Wise, 
I laugh beeaus(i sweet Agripyne's not there, 
lUit weep because she is not any where ; 
And weep because (whether she be or not) 
Mv \ovv was ever anil is still forgot; forgot, forgot, ti^'got. 

(jir//. Draw l)aek tiiis streani : why should my Orleans mourn ? 

ih-/. Look yond(>r, (.Jalloway, dost thou see that sun ? 
Nay, gooil fri«nul, stare upon if, mark it well: 
l''rt> he !>(> two hours elder, all that glory 
is banish'd heaven, and tluni, for grief, this sky 
('['hat's now so jocund) will mourn all in blaek. 
And shall not t>rleans mourn? alack, alack : 
O what a savagt> tyranny it were 
To enforce Care laugh, ami Wo not shod a tear ! 
Dead is mv Love ; 1 am buried in her scorn : 



OU) fORTUNATUS. 59 



That is my sunset ; and sliall I not mourn ! 
Yes by my troth I will. 

Gdi/. Dtiar friciul forboar ; 
Beauty (like Sorrow) dwellotli every where. 
Rase out this strong idea of her face : 
As fair as her's shineth in any place. 

Orl. Thou art a Traitor to that White and Red, 
Which sitting on hor checks (being ('upid's throne) 
Is my iieart's Sovcraino : O when she is dead, 
This wonder (beauty) shall be found in none. 
Now Agripyne's not mine, I vow to be 
In love with nothing but deformity. 
( ) fair Deformity, I muse all eyes 
Ar(! not cnamor'd of thee: thou didst never 
Murder m(;n's hearts, or let them pine like-wax 
Melting against the sun of thy destiny ; 
'J'hou art a faithful nurse to Chastity ; 
Thy beauty is not lik(! to Agripyne's, 
For cares, and age, and sickness her's deface, 
Hut thiiie's eternal : O Deformity, 
Thy fairness is not like to Agrij)yne's, 
I' or (dead) her beauty will no beauty have. 
Hut thy face looks most lovely in the grave, 

[Tho hmnov of a frantic Lover is hero done to the life. Orleans in as 
passionate an Inamorato as any which ShakHp('are ever drew. lie is just 
sucli another adept in Love'8 reasons. 'I'he sober people oC the world are 
with hitn 

a swarm of fools 
Crowding together to be counted wise. 

He talks " pure Kiron and Romeo," ho is almost as poetical as tfiey, 
quite as philosophical, only a little madder. After all, Love's Sectaries are 
a "reason unto themselves." We have gone retrograde in the nohlo 
Heresy since the days when Sidney {)rosf;lyted our nation to this mixed 
health and disease; the kindliest symptom yet the most alarming crisis in 
the ticklisii state of youth; the nourisher and the dcslroyed of hopeful 
wits; the mother of twin-birds, wisdom and folly, vahjr and weakness ; the 
servitude above freedom ; the gentle mind's religion ; the liberal supersti- 
tion.] 



60 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



SATIRO-MASTIX, OR THE UNTHITSSINO OK THE HUMOROUS 
POET. BV THOMAS DI'X'KER. 

The h'iiif; exacts an oath from Sir Walter 'l\rill to send his Bride 
Ctrlestina to Court on the marriaf::e niii/it. Her Father, to save her 
honor, ^/iv'.v /;(/• a jioi^sonoiis mixtiire which she swallows. 

'Vx'Aui.h. Cji:lestina. Father. 

Ctrl. Why didst thou swear? 

Ttr. Tlio King 
Sat h(^avv on my resolution, 
'J'ill (out of hri>iitii) it panted out an oath. 

Vitl. An oath ! why, what's an oath ? 'tis but the smoke 
or Hume nud blood ; the blister of the s|)irit 
Which riseth from the stoam of rage, the bubble 
That shoots up to the tongue and scalds the voice 
(For oaths are burning words). Thou swor'st but one, 
'Tis iVo7,(>n long ago : if one be number'd, 
AVhat eountrymiMi are they, where do they ilwell, 
Tiuil s|n>ak nought else but oat lis ? 

Tcr. They 're Men of Hell. 
An oath ! why 'tis the traflic of the soul, 
'Tis law within a man ; the seal of faith. 
The bond of every conseienee ; unto whom 
We set our tiioughts like hands ; yea, such a one 
1 swore, and to the King ; a King contains 
A thousand thousand ; M'hen 1 swore to him, 
1 swor(> to them ; the very hairs that guard 
His heatl will rise up like sharp witnesses 
Against my faitii and loyalty : his eye 
Woulil straight condenm me : argue oaths no more ; 
My oath is high, for to the King I swore. 

Cii'l. Must I betray my ehastity, so long 
Clean from the treason of rebelling lust? 
O husband, O my father, if poor I 
Must not live chaste, then let mo chastely die. 

Fath. Pi-Y^!:, hero's a charm shall keep thee chaste, come, come. 
Old time hath leH us but an hour to play 



SATIRO-MAS'I'IX. 61 



Our parts ; begin the scene ; who shall speak first ? 

Oh I, [ play tlu! King, and Kings spetik firsl : 

Daughter, stand thou here, thou son Torill tlicre ; 

We need no prologue, the King cntt^ring first 

He 's a most gracious Prologue: marry, then 

For the catastrophe or Epilogui^ 

There's one in cloth of'silvcM-, which no doubt 

Will please the hearers well when he steps out ; 

His mouth is filled with words : see where he stands : 

He '11 make them clap their eyes besides their hands. 

But to my part : suppose who enters now, 

A King wiiose eyes an; set in silver; one 

That blusheth gold, speaks music, dancing walks, 

Now gathers nearer, takes thee by the hand. 

When straight thou think'st the very orb of heaven, 

Moves round about thy fing(!rs ; then lie speaks, 

Thus — thus — I know not how. 

Ccel. Nor 1 to answer him. 

Falh. No, girl, know'st thou not liow to answtir him? 
Why, then, the field is lost, and lie rides honu; 
Like a great conriueror : not answer him ! 
Out of" thy part already ! foil'd the .sc(!ne ! 
Disrardt'd the lin(;s ! disann'd tlie action ! 

Ter. Yes, yes, true chastity is tongucd so weak 
'Tis overcome ere it know how to speak. 

Falh. Come, come, thou haj)py close f)!' every wrong, 
'Tis thou that canst dissolve the hardest doubt ; 
'Tis time for tiiee to speak, we all an; out. 
Daughter and you the man whom I call son, 
1 must confess I made a deed of gift 
To heaven end you, arid gave Uiy child to boiii ; 
When on my blessing I did charm her soul 
Jn the white circle of true chastity. 
Still to run true till deatii : now, sir, if not. 
She forfeits my rich blessing, and is fined 
With an eternal curse ; then I tell you. 
She shall die now, now whilst her soul is true. 

Ter. Die! 



(••3 KNCI.ISII DKAMATIC POETS. 



Cal. Aye, I am death's echo. 

Folk. O my son : 
I am her father ; every tear I sheil 
Is threescore ten years old ; I weep and smile 
Two kinds of tears ; I weep tiiat she must die, 
I smile that she must die a virgin : tlms 
We joyful men mock tears, and tears mock ua. 

Tcr. What speaks tliat cup ? 

luif.li. White wine and poison. 

IW. Oh! 
That very name of poison poisons me. 
Thou winter of a man, thou walking grave, 
VViiose life is like a dying taper: how 
Canst thou defnie a lover's laboring thoughts ? 
What scent hast thou but deatli ! whal taste but earth ? 
Tlie br(>ath that purls from thee is like the stean] 
Of a ni'w-open'd vault : I know thy drift ; 
Hecause thou 'rt travelling to the land of graves, 
Thou covet'st company, and hither bring'st 
A lirallli of poison to pledge death : a poison 
I'or ihis sweet spring ; this element is mine, 
Tills is the air I breathe ; corrupt it not; 
This heaven is mine, T bought it with my soul 
Of him tliat sells a heaven to buy a soul. 

Fdtli. Well, let h(>r go; she's thine, thou call'st her thine, 
'I'hy cli'iiunt, the air thou breath'st ; thou know'st 
Tlu> air tliou breath'st is common ; make her so. 
I'erhaps thou 'It say none but the King shall wear 
'I'hy nightgown, she that laps thee warm with love ; 
And ihat Kings are not common : then to show 
1{\ consequence he caimot make her so. 
Indeed she may promote her shame and tliine, 
And \\ ith your shames speak a good word for mine. 
'I'he King shining so clear, and we so dim. 
Our dark ilisgraces will be seen through him. 
Imagine her the cup of tliy moist life, 
What man would pledge a King in his own wife ? 

Ter. She dies : that sentence poisons her : O life ! 



SATIRO-MASTIX. 63 



What slave would |)lrflj,fo a K'\u^ in liis own Wife ! 

Cccl. VVelcoino U poison, piiysic; against lust, 
Thou wholesomo medicine to a constant blood ; 
Thou rare apothecary that canst keep 
My chastity prescrv'd witiiin this hox 
Of tempting dust, tiiis painted eartluMi ])0t 
That stands upon the stall olthc wiiite soul, 
To set the shop out like a flatterer, 
To draw the customers of sin : come, come. 
Thou art no poison, but a di(!t drink 
To moderate my blood : VVhitc-innocent Wine, 
Art thou made guilty of my death ? oh no, 
For thou thyself art poison ; take me hence. 
For Innocence shall murder Innocence. [Drinks. 

Ter. Hold, hold, thou shalt not die, my bride, my wife, 
O stop that speedy messenger of death ; 

let him not run down that narrow path 
Which leads unto thy heart, nor carry news 
To thy removing soul that thou must die. 

Cal. 'Tis done already, the Spiritual Court 
Is breaking up, all OHices discliarg'd 
My Soul removes from this weak Standing-house 
Of frail mortality : Dear father, bless 
Me now and ever : Dearer man, farewell ; 

1 jointly take my leave of thee and life ; 
Go tell the King thou hast a constant wife. 

Fdth. Smiles on my cheeks arise 
To see how sweetly a true virgin dies. 

[The beauty and force of this scene are much diminished to the reader of 
the entire play, when he comes to find thiit this solemn preparation is but 
a sham contrivance of the father's, and the potion which Cu'lostina swal- 
lows nothinf^ more than a slecpinj^ (lranf!;ht ; frotn tlie cflecls of which she 
is to awake in due time, to the surprise of iier husband, and the great mirth 
and edification of the King and his courders. As Hanilet says, they do but 
•' poison in jest " 'I'lu' sentiments are worthy of a real martyrdom, and an 
Appian sacrifice in earnest.] 



C4 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

THE HONEST WHORE. A COMEDY. 1?Y THOMAS DECKER 

HtKipitttl for l^iinntics. 
Thoro nit> of mad nioii, as there are ot' tame, 
All humor \1 not alike. We have here some 
So apisli and tantastie, play with a feather ; 
And, though 'twoulil grieve a soul to see God's image 
So blemish'd and defae'd, yet do they aet 
Sueh antiek and sueh pretty lunaeies, 
That, spite o( sorrow, they w ill make vou smile. 
Others again we have, like hungry lions. 
Fierce as wild bulls, untameable as Hies. — 

rutit'iicf. 
Patience ! why, 'tis the sovd of peace : 
Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to ]\eaven ; 
It makes men look like goiis. — The best o\' men 
That e'er wore eartii about liim was a SulVerer, 
'A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit ; 
The first true gentleman that ever breath'd. 



THE SECOND TAR T OF THE HONEST WHORE. 
BY THOMAS DECKER. 

BeU<\frout, a reclaimed Harlot, recounts some of the miseries of her 
profession. 
liike an ill husband, tliough I knew the same 
To be my undoing, follow 'd I that game, 
(.^h when tl\e work of lust liad earn'd my bread. 
To taste it how I trembled, lest each bit 
V.rc it went down should dioke me chewing it. 
]\Iy bed seemed like a cabin hung in hell, 
The bawd hell's porter, and tlte liquorish wine 
The pandar fetch'd was like an easy tine 
For which methought I leas'd away my soul, 
And otlentimes even in my quatling-bowl 
Thus said I to mvsclf : I am a Whore, 



THE HONEST WHORE. 69 

And have drunk down thus much confusion more. 

wljen in the street 

A fair young modest damsel* I did meet, 

She seem'd to all a Dove, when I pass'd hy. 

And I to all a Raven ; every eye 

That follow'd her, went with a hashful glance ; 

At me each bold and jeering countenance 

Darted forth scorn : to her as if she had been 

Some Tower unvanquished would they vail ; 

'Gainst me swoln rumor hoisted every sail ; 

She crown'd with reverend praises pass'd by them, 

I though with face mask'd could not 'scape the Hem ; 

For, as if heaven had set strange marks on whores, 

Because they should be pointing stocks to man, 

Drest up in civilest shape a Courtezan ; 

Let her walk saint-like noteless and unknown. 

Yet she's betray 'd by some trick of her own. 

The happy Man. 
He that makes gold his wife, but not his whore, 
He that at noon day walks by a prison door. 
He that in the sun is neither beam nor moat, 

• This simple picture of Honor and Shame, contrasted without violence, 
and expressed without immodesty, is worth all the strong linen against the 
Harlot's Profession, with which both Parts of this play are offensively 
crowded. A Satirist is always to be suspected, who, to make vice odious, 
dwells upon all its acts and minutest circumstances with a sort of relish and 
retrospective gust. But so near are the boundaries of panegyric and invec- 
tive, that a worn-out Sinner is sometimes found to make the best Deciaimer 
against .Sin. The same high-3ea.soned descriptions which in his unregene- 
rate state served to inflame his appetites, in his new province of a Moralist 
will serve hirn (a little turned) to expose the enormity of those appetites in 
other men. No one will doubt, who reads Marston's .Sitiies, that the 
author in some part of his life must have been something more than a theo- 
rist in vice. Have we never heard an old preacher in the pulpit display 
such an insight into the mystery of ungodliness, as made us wonder with 
reason how a good man came by it .' When Cervantes with such profi- 
ciency of fondness dwells upon the Don's library, who sees not that he has 
been a great reader of books of Kniglit-Errantry ? perhaps was at some time 
of his life in danger of falling into those very extravagances which he ridi- 
cules 90 happily in his Hero .' 
PAKT I. 6 



CG ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



He that's not mad after a petticoat, 

He for whom j)oor men's curses ilig no grave, 

He that is neillier Lord's nor Lawyer's slave. 

He tliat makes This his sea and That his shore, 

He that in 's collin is richer than before. 

He that counts Youth his sword and Age his staff, 

lie whose right hand carves his own epitaph, 

lie tliat upon i)is deatii-bed is a Swan, 

And dead, no Crow ; he is a Tlajipy Man.* 



WESTWARD HOE. A COMEDY. BY THOMAS DECKER AND 
.lOHN WEBSTER 

P/tastire, the general pursuit. 

Sweet Ph^asure ! 

Delicious Pleasure ! earth's supremest good, 
The spring of blood, though it dry up our blood. 
l\ob me of that (tliough to be druiiU with pleasure, 
As rank excess even in best things is bad. 
Turns man into a beast) yet, that being gone, 
A horse, and this (the goodliest shape) all one. 
We feed ; wear rich attires ; and strive to cleave 
The stars with marble towers ; light battles ; spend 
Our blood, to buy us names ; and in iron hold 
Will we eat roots to imprison fugitive gold : 
But to do thus what sp^U can us excite ? 
This ; the strong magic of our appetite : 
To feast which richly, life itself undoes. 
Who 'd not die thus ? 

Why even those that starve in voluntary wants, 
And, to advance the mind, keep the flesh poor. 
The world enjoying them, they not the world ; 
Would they do this, but that they are proud to suck 
A sweetness from such sourness ? 

* The turn of this ig the same with Tago's definition of a Deserving Woman 
" She that was ever fair and never proud," &c. The matter is superior. 



LINGUA. 67 

Jifusic. 



Let music 
Charm with her excellent voice an awful silence 
Through all this buil(1in<T, that her sphcry soul 
May (on the wings of air) in thousand forms 
Invisibly fly, yet be enjoy 'd. 



LINGUA; A COMEDY. J3Y ANTHONY BREWER. 
Languages. 

The ancient Hebrew, clad with mysteries ; 

The learned Greek, rich in fit epithets, 

Blest in the lovely marriage of pure words ; 

The Chaldee wise, the Arabian physical, 

Tlie Roman eloquent, and Tuscan grave, 

The braving Spanish, and the smootli-tongued French — 

T'ragedf/ and Comedy. 
— fellows both, both twins, but so uidike 
As birth to death, wedding to funeral : 
For this that roans himself in buskins quaint. 
Is pleasant at the first, [)roud in the midst, 
Stately in all, and bitter death at end. 
That in the pumps dotii frown at first acquaintance, 
Trouble the midst, but in the end concludes 
Closing up all with a sweet catastrophe. 
Thia grave and sad, distaincd with brinish tears : 
That liglit and quick, witii wrinkled laughter painted: 
This deals with nobles, kings, and (uriperors, 
Full of great fears, great hopes, great enterprizes ; 
This other trades with men of mean condition, 
Ilis projects small, small hopes, and dangers little : 
Tiiis gorgeous, broider'd witli rich sentences : 
That fair, and purflcMi round witii merriments. 
Both vice detect, and virtue beautify, 
By being death's mi.-ror, and life's looking-glass. 



08 ENGLISH DKAMAIMC I'OKTS. 



•niK lllSI't)UV oy ANTON'IO AND M Kl.l.l DA. TllK KIKST 
I'AKT. IIV JOHN MAUSTDN. 

JlttilrUf:;io, Ihikr of (>'iin><i,l>nnis/ir(l /lis roinitif/, iritfi t/ir losn of a son, 
sii/iposnl iliownrii, is rust upon Ific tnriloiij of his iiioiiol iiirtiii/ f/ie 
l)iiAf of I'niirr ii<it/i no attniihiiits but l.itrio, an old noti/minn, uml a 

Andr. Is not yon i;!(>nm llio shutl(rriii}.r Mmn llml (lakes 
\\'ill\ silvtM" liiu'tinv ihr rust vtTijje ol' luMivni ! 

I, tic. I tliiiik it is, so |)loas(> your ICxi'o1I(MH'o. 

Antlr. Away, 1 liuvt> no l''.\i'('lltMic(^ lo plouso. 
I'ritlico olts(>rv(> llio ciisloni ol'llio world ; 
'I'liat only (lall(>rs i>r(<alnt\ss. stalt>s (wtills. 
Ami |)l(<nsi< my l'',xr(>ll(MU'o ! O IjUi'io, 
'I'lion liust IxHMi rvt>r liolti rosptn'ted, dour, 
l')v(Mi profious to Aiulrujj;io\s iiunosi lovo : 
(Jood, llatltM" not. 

My tl\oni;l>ts aw fixt in I'onloniplution 
NN liy lliis Iniyo oarlli, this monstrous animal 
I'liat cats \\vr cliildren, should not havo »>yos und cars. 
^Miihtsophy maintains that Nature's wise, 
And Tonus no useless nor unperllu't thiuij;. 
hid Natun^ mukt> th(> t>arth. ov the earth Nature ! 
I'or (>arthly dirt makes all thinjfs, uiakes the man, 
[Moulds mt> up honor, and, like u i-unnini;; Dutehman, 
I'aints n\t^ u pupptM even with s(>emini;- hreath. 
And gives a sot appeanmoe of a soul. 
(lO to, go to; thou ly'st, IMulosophy. 
Naturt> forms things unperfeet, useless, vain. 
Why made sh(< uot the earth with ey(>s ami t*ars ? 
That she might see desert and h<>ur men's plaints j 
That when a soul is splitted. sunk with grief, 
llt> niight fall thus upon tlu> hnuist of l''.arth, 
And in Ium- ear halh>o his uiistM-y, 
I'Aelaiming thus : () thou all ht>aring h'arth, 
\\ hii'h men (\o gajte for till thou eramni'st tht-ir n\ouths 
And ehoak'st lh<Mr throats with tlust ; «ipen thy hreust, 
And let n»e sink into tlu>t> : look who kno«'ks ; 
Andrugio ealls. Ivul l > site's dt-af and hliml. 



AN'H>NH> ANIi Mi;i,l,IIM. fly 

A wri;U:\\ l)iit |i!uri rclirfoii ciirlli ciiii fitul. 

Luc. Swcrt lionl, uIhukIoii |HiHHioii ; mid di-iuiii. 
Hiiico \>y flirt fortune ol'llie l.ijfi)lj|iri(;j Hrwi 
Wo um roll'd up ii|iijii iIk; Vfsniorj rnurHli, 
JiCt'H (;li(» all fidliiiM!, IfjHt inori! low'riiij^ ('uU) — 

^nr/r. More low'rinjr f'lilf! ! () Lunio, (;|i(,)<r. tlmt. hrculli. 
Now I dc(y <;lmii(;c. I''orl.iifi(!'H lirow Imtli IVown'd, 
Mvcii to till! utriioHl. wriiikh) it cun Ix-iul : 
llfii- vciioiii'h H|)il, AIuh! wliut ooijiitry rcHtH, 
Wfiat Kori, whut (;r)iiiror(., tlmt hIih can driprivf; ? 
'iVintiipliH not V«!ni(;«! in tny ovortlirow '( 
(•iijx'H not my nutivo country i'ar niy Mood ? 
Lif!H not hiy Hon tonil>'d in tlu; Hwcllinj^ main '{ 
And in rnon; low'riii^'; fatrs ? 'I'licrc's fifithin^ left 
I'lito Aiidnij.no liiit Aiidruf(if>; 
And lliiit 

Nor miHcliieC, fiur:*;, diHtrri.s.s, nor Iwll oiui tiikc : 
J''orlunf! my (iirtiimtH nf*t my mind Hliail Hliak*;. 

Luc. HiMiak liko yoiirHcJf": hut j,'ivf! mc l«!av«;, my Jji^rd, 
'I'o vviuli yoii Huflity. II' you tire. I»ul Hi-t'.n, 
Your arms dinplay )ou ; tiKnd'orc |)Ut tlicm ofl', 
And take 

Andr. WfjiiM'Ht liavi; mo ^o uriarm'd among my focHt 
iJoinj^ bf!Mi(!g'd ljy I'uHsion, cnt'irinj^ lihtH 
To comlmt with I)oH(iair an<l mighty (irU-S: 
My Houl l)<'lca;.'U(r'd with tlio oriiHhing Htrcngtii 
or sliarp lm|)Uti(ric,c. Ila, liUoio; go unarm'd ? 
(Jom«!, Houl, rcHumo tlio valor of thy hirth ; 
MyHolf myHfir will rlaro all o[)(K)Mit(!H ; 
I'll muHt«'-r forooH, an uiivan(|uiHli'd power: 
('orii'-ts of liorsr; Hliall pro.-;;i tli' ungiateCnl frartli : 
Tliih hfillow-womhod fnuHM Hliall inly grf)an 
And murmur to HUHtain the weight fd arrriH : 
(ihantly Amaziiment, with upstarlr-rl hair, 
(Shall hurry on hofore, and unhftr uh, 
WhilHt trumpotH clamor with a Hourid of death. 

Luc. IVaof!, gfVxi my lord, your Hpeeoh in all too light. 
AlaM, survey your fortunen, lo(<k what'n left 



70 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Of all your forces and your utmost hopes ; 
A weak old man, a page, and your poor self. 

Andr. Andrugio lives ; and a Fair Cause of Arms, 
Why, that's an army all invincible. 
He who hath that, hath a battalion royal, 
Armor of proof, huge troops of barbed steeds, 
Main squares of pikes, millions of harqucbush. 
O, a Fair Cause stands firm, and will abide ; 
Legions of Angels fight upon her side. 

[The situation of Andrugio and Lucio resembles that of Lear and Kent, 
in that King's distresses. Andrugio, like Lear, manifests a kind of royal 
impatience, a turbulent greatness, an affected resignation. The Enemies 
which he enters lists to combat, " Despair and mighty Grief, and sharp 
Impatience," and the Forces (" Cornets of Horse," &c.) which he brings to 
vanquish them, are in the boldest style of Allegory. They are such a 
"race of mourners" as "the infection of sorrows loud" in the intellect 
might beget on " some pregnant cloud " in the imagination.] 



ANTONIO'S REVENGE. THE SECOND PART OF THE HISTORY 
OF ANTONIO AND MELLIDA. BY JOHN MARSTON. 

The Prologue * 

The rawish dank of clumsy winter ramps 
The fluent summer's vein ; and drizzling sleet 
Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numb'd earth, 
While snarling gusts nibble the juiceless leaves 
From the nak'd shudd'ring branch, and pillsf the skin 
From oft' the soft and delicate aspects. 
O now methinks a sullen tragic scene 

* This prologue for its passionate earnestness, and for the tragic note of 
preparation whii-li it sounds, might have preceded one of those old tales of 
Thebes, or Pelops' line, which Milton has so highly commended, as free 
from the common error of the poets in his days, " of intermixing comic 
stuft'with tragic sadness and gravity, hrouglit in without discretion corruptly 
to gratify the people." It is as solemn a preparative as the "warning 
voice which he who saw th' Apocalypse, heard cry." 

t Peels. 



AN'lUNlU'S REVENGE. 71 

Would suit the time with pleasing congruence. 

May we be happy in our weak devoir, 

And all part pleas'd in most wish'd content. 

But sweat of Hercules can ne'qr beget 

So blest an issue. Therefore we proclaim, 

If any spirit breathes withib this round 

Uncapable of weighty passion 

(As from his birth being hugged in the arms, 

And nuzlcd 'twixt the breasts of Happiness*), 

Who winks and shuts his apprehension up 

From common sense of what men were, and are ; 

Who would not know what men must be : let such 

Hurry amain from our black visag'd shows ; 

We shall atfright their eyes. But if a breast, 

Nail'd to the earth with grief; if any heart, 

Pierc'd through with anguish, pant within this ring ; 

if there be any blood, whose heat is choak'd 

And stifled with true sense of misery : 

If aught of these strains fill this consort up. 

They arrive most welcome. O that our power 

Could lacky or keep wing with our desires; 

That with unused poize of stile and sense 

We might weigh massy in judicious scale ! 

Yet here's the prop that doth support our hopes : 

When our scenes falter, or invention halts, 

Your favor will give crutches to our faults. 

Antonio, son to Andrugio Dxike of Genoa, whom Piero the Venetian 
Prince and father-in-law to Jlntonio has cruelly murdered, kills Piero" s 
little son, Julio, as a sacrifice to the ghost of Jlndrugio. — The scene, a 
church-yard : the time, midnight. 

Julio. Antonio. 
Jul. Brother Antonio, are you here i' faith ? 
Why do you frown ? Indeed my sister said. 
That I should call you brother, that she did, 
When you were married to her. Buss me : good truth, 
I love you better than my father, 'deed. 

* " Sleek favoiiC.es of Fortune." Preface to Poems by S. T. Coleridge. 



72 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POl'/rs. 



Ant. Tliy liitlu-r ? gracious, O bounteous licaven, 
I do ailoro tliy justice. Vcnit in nostras mantis 
Tandem, vindicta, vcnit ct tota quidcin. 

Jul. Truth, since my niotlier died, I loved you best. 
Sometliing hath anger 'd you : pray you, look merrily. 

Ant. I will laugli, and dimple my thin cheek 
With capering joy ; chuck, my heart doth leap 
To grasp thv bosom. Time, place, and blood, 
How lit you close together ! heaven's tones 
Strike not such music to innuortal souls, 
As ypur accordance sweets my breast withal. 
Methinks I pace upon the front of Jove, 
And kick corruption with a scornful heel, 
(iriping this llesli, distlain mortality. 

that 1 knew which joint, which side, which limb 
Were father all, and had no mother in it ; 

That I might rip it vein by vein, and carve revenge 
in bleeding traces: but since 'tis mix'd together, 
Have at adventure, pell-mell, no reverse. 
Come hither, boy ; tliis is Andrugio's hearse. 

Jul. O God, you'll hurt me. For my sister's sake, 
Pray you don't hurt me. And you kill me, 'deed 
I'll tell my father. 

Ant. Oh, for thy sister's sake I (lag revenge. 

jln<lriigio\s Ghost crits " Revenge." 

Ant. Stay, stay, dear father, fright mine eyes no more. 
Revenge as swifl as lightning, bursteth ibrth 
And clears his heart. Come, pretty tender child, 
It is not thee I hate, or thee T kill 
Thy lather's blootl that (lows within thy veins, 
Is it I lotlie ; is that, revenge must suck. 

1 love thy soul : and were thy heart lapt up 
In any flesh but in Pierc's blood, 

I would thus kiss it : but, being his, thus, thus. 

And thus I'll punch it. Abandon fears: 

Whilst thy wounds bleed, my brows shall gush out tears. 

Jul. So you will love me, do even what you will. [Dies. 

Ant. Now barks the wolf against the fulUcheekt moon; 



ANTONIO'S HKVKN(iK. 73 



Now lions' half-clumM tntniils mar lor food ; 

Now crouks the toad, ami iii<fiit-crows surcocli aloud, 

Flutt(>riiiff 'bout casements of dopartiiiji; souls! 

Now ffapo the }f raves, and tiiroujfh thoir yawns lot loose 

Imprison'd sj)ints to revisit earth : 

And now, swart Night, to swell thy hour out 

Behold I spurt warm blood in thy black eyes. 

{From under the earth a groan.) 
Howl not, tiiou j)utry mould ; irroun ?iot, ye graves ; 
1{«^ dumb, all breath. Here stands Andrugio's son, 
Worthy his father. So ; i feel no breath ; 
His jaws are fall'n, his dislodged soul is lied. 
And now there's notliing but Piero left. 
He is all Piero, father all. This blood, 
Tliis breast, this heart, Pi(M'o all : 
Whom thus I mangle Spright of Julio, 
Forget this was thy truid(. I live thy friend. 
Mayst thou be twined with the soft'st embrace 
Of clear eternity ;* but thy father's blood 

1 thus make incense of to Vengeance. * * 

******* 

Dai/ breaking. 

see, the dapple grey courscu'sof the morn 

Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs 
And chase it through the sky. 

One who died, slandered. 
Look on those lips, 
Those now lawn pillows, on whose tender softness 
Chaste modest Speech, stealing from out his breast, 
Had wont to rest itself, as loth to post 
From out so fair an Inn : look, look, they seem 
To stir. 
And breathe defiance to black obloquy. 

Wlierein fools are happy. 
Even in that, note a fool's be^atitude ; 

• "To lie Jmmortul in (lio arms of Kire." Browne's Hcligio Medici. 

Of Ihf |ninishmr'ii(s in \\A\. 



74 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

He is not capable of passion ; 
Wanting the power of distinction, 
He bears an unturn'd sail with every wind : 
Blow east, blow west, he steers his course alike. 
I never saw a fool lean : the chub-faced fop 
Shines sleek with full cram'd fni of happiness : 
Whilst studious contemplation sucks the juice 
From wisard's* cheeks, who making curious search 
For nature's secrets, the First Innating Cause 
Laughs them to scorn, as man doth busy Apes 
When they will zany men. 

Maria {the Dtichess of Genoa) describes the death of Mellida, her 
datighter-in-law. 

Being laid upon her bed she grasp'd my hand. 

And kissing it, spake thus. Thou very poor, 

Why dost not weep I the jewel of thy brow, 

The rich adornment that inchas'd thy breast. 

Is lost ; thy son, my love, is lost, is dead. 

And have 1 liv'd to see his virtues blurr'd 

With guiltless blots ? O world, thou art too subtil 

For honest natures to converse withal : 

Therefore I'll leave thee : farewell, mart of wo; 

I fly to clip my love Antonio, — 

With that, her head sunk down upon her breast ; 

Her cheek chang'd earth, her senses slept in rest : 

Until my Fool,f that crept unto the bed, 

Screech'd out so loud that he brought back her soul, 

Call'd her again, that her bright eyes 'gan ope 

And stared upon him : he audacious fool 

Dared kiss her hand, wisht her soft rest, lov'd Bride ; 

She fumbled out, thanks, good : and so she died. 

• Wise men's. 

t Antonio, who is thought dead, but still lives in that disguise. 



THE MALCONTENT. 7S 

THE MALCONTENT. A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY JOHN MARSTON. 

The Malcontent describes himself. 
I cannot sleep, my eyes' ill neighboring lids 
Will hold no fellowship. O thou pale sober night, 
Thou that in sluggish fumes all sense dost steep ; 
Thou that giv'st all the world full leave to play, 
Unbend'st the feebled veins of sweaty labor: 
The gaily-slave, that all the toilsome day 
Tugs at the oar against the stubborn wave, 
Straining his rugged veins, snores fast ; 
The stooping scythe-man, that doth barb the field. 
Thou mak'st wink sure ; in night all creatures sleep. 
Only the Malcontent, that 'gainst his fate 
Repines and quarrels : alas he's Goodman Tell-clock ; 
Elis sallow jaw-bones sink with wasting moan ; 
Whilst others' beds are down, his pillow's stone. 

Place for a Penitent. 
My cell 'tis, lady ; where, instead of masks. 
Music, tilts, tournies, and such court-like shows, 
The hollow murmur of the checkless winds 
Shall groan a;;ain, whilst the unquiet sea 
Shakes the wliole rock with foamy battery. 
There Usherless* the air come in and out ; 
The rheuiny vault will force your eyes to weep, 
Whilst you behold true desolation. 
A rocky barrenness shall pierce your eyes ; 
Where i\ 1 at once one reaches, where he stands. 
With brows the roof, both walls with both his hands. 

* i. e. without the ceremony of an U.sher to give notice of its approach, 
as is usual in Courts, As fine as Shakspeare • " the bleak air thy boister- 
ous Chamberlain." 



76 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

THE WONDER OF WOMEN : OR THE TRAGEDY OF 
SOPHONISBA. BY JOHN MARSTON. 

Descriptioti of the Witch Erictho. 
Here in this desart, the great Soul of Charms 
Dreadful Ericlho lives ; whose dismal brow 
Contemns all roofs, or civil coverture. 
Forsaken graves and tombs (the ghosts forc'd out) 
She joys to inhabit. 

A loathsome yellow leanness spreads her face, 
A heavy hell-like paleness loads her cheeks. 
Unknown to a clear heaven. But if dark winds 
Or black thick clouds drive back the blinded stars, 
Wlien her deep magic makes forc'd licaven quake. 
And tinmdcr, spite of Jove : Erictlio then 
From naked graves stalks out, heaves proud her head, 
With long unkemb'd hair loaden, and strives to snatch 
The night's quick sulphur ; then she bursts up tombs 
From half-rot sear-cloths ; and she scrapes dry gums 
For her black rites : but when she finds a corse 
But newly grav'd, whose entrails are not turn'd 
To slimy filth, with greedy havoc then 
She makes fierce spoil, and swells with wicked triumph 
To burv her lean knuckles in his eyes : 
Then doth she gnaw the pale and o'er-grown nails 
From liis dry hand : but if she find some life 
Yet lurking close, she bites his gelid lips. 
And sticking her black tongue in his dry throat. 
She breatlies dire murmurs, which enforce him bear 
Her baneful secrets to the spirits of horror. 

Her Cave. 
-Hard by the reverent ruins 



Of a once glorious temple, rear'd to Jove, 

Whose very rubbish (like the pitied fall 

Of virtue much unfortimate) yet bears 

A deathless majesty, though now quite ras'd, 

Hurl'd down by wrath and lust of impious kings, 



WHAT YOU WILL. 77 



So that, where holy Flamens wont to sing 
Sweet hymns to heaven, tliere the daw, and crow, 
The ill-voic'd raven, and still chattering pye. 
Send out ungrateful sounds and loathsome filth ; 
Where statues and Jove's acts were vively* limn'd, 
Boys with black coals draw the veil'd parts of nature 
And lecherous actions of imagined lust ; 
Where tombs and beauteous urns of well-dead men 
Stood in assured rest, the sliepherd now 
Unloads his belly, corruption most abhorr'd 
Mingling itself with their renowned ashes : 
There once a charnel-house, now a vast cave, 
Over whose brow a pale and untrod grove 
Throws out her heavy shade, the mouth thick arms 
Of darksome ewe, sun-proof, for ever choak ; 
Within, rests barren darkness, fruitless drought 
Pines in eternal night ; the steam of hell 
Yields not so lazy air : there, that's her Cell. 



WHAT YOU WILL : A COMEDY. BY JOHN MARSTON. 

Venetian Merchant. 
No knight. 
But one (that title off) was even a prince, 
A sultan Solyman : thrice was he made. 
In dangerous arms, Venice' Providetore. 
He was merchant, but so bounteous. 
Valiant, wise, learned, all so absolute, 

Tiiat nought was valued praiscful excellent, g 

But in 't was he most praiseful excellent. ■ 

O I shall ne'er forget how he went cloathed. ^ 

He would maintain it a base ill-used fashion. 
To bind a merchant to the sullen habit 
Of precise black, chiefly in Venice state, 
Where merchants guilt the top.f 

* Livelily. t " Her whose merchant Sons were Kings."— Collins 



78 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

And therefore should ypu have him pass the bridge 

Up the Rialto like a Soldier ; 

In a black bever belt, ash color plain, 

A Florentine cloth-o'-silver jerkin, sleeves 

White satin cut on tinsel, then long stock ; 

French panes embroider'd, goldsmith's work : O God, 

Methinks 1 see him, how he would walk, 

With what a jolly presence he would pace 

Round the Rialto.* 

Scholar and his Dog. 
I was a scholar : seven useful springs 
Did I deflower in quotations 
Of cross'd opinions 'bout the soul of man ; 
The more I learnt, the more I learn to doubt. 
Delight my spaniel slept, whilst I baus'd leaves, 
Toss'd o'er the dunces, pored on the old print 
Of titled words : and still my spaniel slept. 
Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh. 
Shrunk up my veins : and still my spaniel slept. 
And still I held converse with Zabarell, 
Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw 
Of Antick Donate : still my spaniel slept. 
Still on went I ; first, an sit anima ; 
Then, an it were mortal. O hold, hold ; at that 
They 're at brain buflets, fell by the ears amain 
Pell-mell together ; still my spaniel slept. 

* To judge of the libcnility of these notions of dress, we must advert to 
the days of Gresham, and the consternation which a Phenomenon habited 
like the Merchant here described would have excited among the flat round 
caps, and cloth stockings, upon Change, when those " original arguments or 
tokens of a Citizen's vocation were in fashion not more for thrift and use- 
fulness than for distinction and grace." The blank uniformity to which all 
professional distinctions in apparel have been long hastening, is one instance 
of the Decay of Symbols among us, which, whether it has contributed or 
not to make us a more intellectual, has certainly made us a less imaginative 
people. Shakspeare knew the force of signs: — " a malignant and turban'd 
Turk." " This meal-cap Miller," says the Author of God's Revenge 
against Murder, to express his indignation at an atrocious outrage committed 
by the miller Pierot upon the person of the fair Marieta. 



THE INSATIATE COUNTESS. 79 

Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fixt, 

Ex traduce, but whether 't had free will 

Or no, hot philosophers 

Stood banding factions, all so strongly propt, 

I stagger'd, knew not which was firmer part, 

But thought, quoted, read, observ'd and pryed, 

Stutft noting-books : and still my spaniel slept. 

At length he wak'd, and yawned ; and by yon sky, 

For aught I know he knew as much as I. 

Preparations for Second JVitptials. 
Now is Albano's* marriage-bed new hung 
With fresh rich curtains, now are my valence up, 
Imbost with orient pearl, my grandsire's gift, 
Now are the lawn sheets fum'd with violets 
To fresh the pall'd lascivious appetite. 
Now work the cooks, the pastry sweats with slaves, 
The march-panes glitter, now, now the musicians 
Hover with nimble sticks o'er squeaking crowds,f 
Tickling the dried guts of a mewing cat : 
The tailors, starchers, semsters, butchers, poulterers. 
Mercers, all, all none think on me. 



THE INSATIATE COUNTESS : A TRAGEDY. 
BY JOHN MARSTON. 

Isabella {the Countess), after a long series of crimes of infidelity to her 
husband and of murder, is brought to suffer on a scaffold. Roberto, her 
husband, arrives to take a last leave of her. 

Roberto. Bear record all you blessed saints in heaven 
I come not to torment thee in thy death ; 
For of himself he 's terrible enough. 
But call to mind a Lady like yourself. 
And think how ill in such a beauteous soul, 
Upon the instant morrow of her nuptials, 

• Albano, the first husband speaks ; supposed dead. f Fiddles. 



so ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS 



Apostacy and wild revolt would show. 

Withal, imagine that she had a lord 

Jealous, the air sliouUl ravish her chaste looks ; 

Doting, like the Creator in his models, 

Who views thoni every minute, and with care 

Mixt in his fear of their obedience to him. 

Suppose he simg tlirough famous Italy, 

More conmion than the looser songs of Petrarch, 

To every several Zany's instrument : 

And he poor wretch, hoping some better fate 

Might call her back from her adulterate purpose, 

Lives in obscure and almost unknown life ; 

Till hearing that she is condemned to die, 

For ho once lov'd her, lends his pined corpse 

Motion to bring him to her stage of honor. 

Where, drown'd in wo at her so dismal chance, 

lie clasps her : thus he falls into a trance. 

Isabvlhi. O my ollended lord, lift up your eyes ; 
i?ut yet avert them from my lothed sight. 
Had I with you enjoyed the lawful pleasure, 
To which belongs nor fear nor public shame, 
1 might have lived in honor, died in fame. 
Your pardon on my faltering knees I beg ; 
Which shall confirm more peace unto my death, 
Than all the grave instructions of the CImrch. 

Kohcrlo. Freely thou hast it. Farewell, my Isabella ; 
Let thy death ransome thy soul, O die a rare example. 
The kiss thou gav'st me in the church, here take : 
As T leave thee, so thou \ho world forsake, [Exit, 

Krrciitionrr. Madam, tie up your hair. 

Isabella. O these golden nets. 
That iiave insnared so many wanton youths ! 
Not one but has been held a thread of life. 
And superstitiousl}- depeiuled on. 
AVhat else ? 

Executioner. Madam. 1 must intn^it vou Mind vour eyes. 

hahella. I have lived too long in darkness, my friend ; 
And yet mine eyes with their majestic light, 



CiESAK AND I'OMI'KY. 81 



Have got new Muses in a Poet's spright. 
Thoy'vo hocu uioro jfazM at than tlio (iod of day ; 
Their brightness never couhl l)e flattered ; 
Yet tliou conmiand'st a fixcHJ cloud of lawn 
To eclipse eternally these minutes of light. 
I am prepared. — 

Woman's Inconstancy. 
Who would have thought it? She that could no more 
Forsake my company, than can the day 
Forsake the glorious presence of the sun, 
When I was absent, then her galled eyes 
Would have shed April showers, and outwept 
The clouds in that same o'er-passionate mood 
When they drown'd all the world : yet now forsakes me. 
Women, your eyes shed glances like the sun ; 
Now shines your brightness, now your light is done. 
On the svveet'st flowers you shine, 'tis but by chance. 
And on the basest weed you'll waste a glance. 



CJSSAR AND POMPEY. A TRAGEDY. BY GEORGE CHAPMAN. 

Sacrifice. 
Imperial Ca-sar, at your sacred charge; 
I drew a milk white ox into the Temple, 
And turning there his face into the East 
(Fearfully shaking at the shining light) 
Down fell his horned forehead to his hoof. 
When I began to greet him w ith the stroke 
That should prepare him for the holy rites, 
With hideous roars he laid out such a throat 
As made the secret lurkings of the God 
To answer, ICclio-like, in threat'ning sounds : 
1 struck again at him, and then he slept; 
His life-blood boiling out at every wound 
In streams as clear as any liquid ruby, 

the beast cut up, and lai<l on the altar, 

His liml)s were all lickt up with instant flames; 

TAUT I. 7 



8<J ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS 

Not like the elemental tire that burns 
la household uses, laiuely stiuggliu^- up, 
This way and that way winding as it rises, 
But riglit anil upright reacht his proper sphere 
Where burns the lire eternal and sincere. 

Joy unexpected, bettt. 
Joys luiexpected, and in desperate plight, 
Are still most sweet, and prove from whence they come j 
When earth's still moon-like contidence in joy 
Is at her full : True Joy descending far 
I'rom past her sphere, anil from tl»e highest heaven 
That nioves and is not moved. 

Inward help the best help. 

1 will stand no more 

On othei-s' legs, nor build one joy wittwut me. 

If ever I be worth a house again, 

I'll build all inward : not a light sl\all opt> 

The eommou out-way ; no expense, no art, 

No ornament, no door, will I use thero ; 

But raise all plain and rudely like a rampire, 

Agauist the false society of men, 

That still batters 

All reason pieee-meal ; and, for earthly greatness 

All heavenly comtbrts rarities the air. 

I'll therefore live in dark ; and all my light, 

Like ancient Temples, let in at my top. 

That w htn-e to turn one's back to all the world, 

And only lix^k at heaven. 

When our diseas'd affections 

Harmful to human freedom, and storm-like 
Inferring darkness to th' infected mind. 
Oppress our cond'orts ; 'tis but letting in 
The light of reason, and a purer spirit 
Take in another way ; like ixwms that fight 
With windows 'gainst the wind, yet let in ligtil. 



BUSSy D'AMBOIS. 83 

BUSSY D'AMBOIS. A TRAGEDY BY GEORGE CHAPMAN. 

A JVimtius (or Messenger) in presence of King Henry the Third of 
France and his court tells the mannir of a combat, to which he was 
witness, of three to three ; in which JfJlmbois remained sole survivor ; 
begun upon an affront passed upon D'Ambois by some courtiers. 

Henry, Guise, Beaupre, Nuntius, &c. 

Nuntius. I saw fierce D'Arnhois and his two brave friends 
Enter the field, and at their heels their foes, 
Which wore the famous soldiers, Barrisor, 
L'Anou, and Pyrrhot, groat in deeds of arms: 
All which arriv'd at tho ovonost piece of earth 
The field aflorded, the throe challengers 
Turn'd head, drew all their rapiers, and stood rank'd j 
When face to face the three defendants met them, 
Alike prepar'd, and resolute alike. 
Like bonfires of contributory wood 
i'jvery man's look .show'd, fnl with other's spirit ; 
As one had been a mirror to another. 
Like forms of life and death each took from other ; 
And so were life and death mix'd at their heights, 
That you could see no fear of death (for life) 
Nor love of life (for death) : but in their brows 
Pyrrho's opinion in great letters shone ; 
That " life and death in all respects are one." 

Henry. Past there no sorts of words at their encounter ! 

Nuntius. As Hector twixt the hosts of Greece and Troy, 
When Paris and the Spartan king should end 
The nine years' war, held up his brazen lance 
For signal that both hosts should cease from arms. 
And hear him speak : so Barrisor (advis'd) 
Advanced his naked rapier 'twixt both sides, 
Ript up the quarrel, and copipar'd six lives 
Then laid in balance with six idle words ; 
Otfer'd remission and contrition too : 
Or else that he and D'Anibois might conclude 
The othf rs' danger. D'Ambois lik'd the last: 
But Barrisor's friends (being equally engag'd 



84 ENGLISH DKAJVIATIC PdETS. 



In tlie main quarrel), novor would expose 

His life alone to that they all deserv'd. 

And (for the other oiler of remission) 

D'Ainbois (that like a laurel put in fire 

Sparkled ami spit) did much nuich more than scorn 

That his wrong should imeii-se lim so like chatF 

To go so soon out, and, like lighted paper, 

Approve his spirit at once both fire and ashes ; 

So drew they lots, and in them fates appointed 

That Barrisor should light with fit^ry D'Ambois ; 

Pyrrhot witli Melynt-li ; with IJrisae l/Anou : 

And then like (lame and powder they commixt. 

So sprightly, that 1 wish'd they had been Spirits; 

That the ne'er-shutting wounds, they needs must open, 

Might as th(>y open'd shut, and never kill.* 

But D'Ambois' sword (that liglit'ned as it flew) 

Shot like a pointed comet at the face 

Of manly Barrisor ; and there it stuck : 

Thrice pluck'd he at it, and thrice drew on thrusts 

From him, that of himself was free as fire ; 

Who thrust still, as he pluck'd, yet (past belief) 

He with his subtil eye, hand, body, 'scap'd ; 

At last the deadly bitten point tugg'd off, 

On fell his yet undaunted foe so fiercely 

That (only made nu)re horriil w ith his wound) 

Great D'Ambois sluunk, and gave a little ground: 

But soon return 'd, redoubled in his ilanger. 

And at the heart of Barrisor seal'd his anger. 

Then, as in Arden 1 have seen an oak 

Long shook with tempests, and iiis lof\y top 

Bent to his root, which being at length made loose 

(Even groaning with his weight) lie 'gan to nod 

This way and that, as loth his curled brows 

(Which he had oft wrapt in the sky with storms) 

Should stooji ; and yet, his radical fibres burst, 

* One can hardly boliove but tliat these lines were written afler MiltoQ 
had described his tvarring angels. 



BUSSY D'AMBOIS. * 85 



Storm-like he fell, and hid the fear-cold earth : 
So foil stout Barrisor, that iiad stood tlio shocks 
Of ten set battles in your highness' war 
'Gainst the solo soldier of the world Navarro. 

Guise. O piteous and horrid murder ! 

Beaupre. Such a life 
Mothinks had metal in it to survive 
An affo of men. 

Henry. Such often soonest end. 
Thy felt report calls on ; we long to know 
On what events the others have arrived. 

Nuntius. Sorrow and fury, like two opposite fumes 
Met in the upper rojfion of a cloud, 
At the report made by this worthy's fall, 
Brake from the earth, and with them rose Revenge, 
Ent'ring with fresh pow'rs his two noble friends: 
And under that odds fell surcharg'd Brisac, 
The friend of I)'Anii)ois, bofon; fierce L'Anou ; 
Which D'Ambois seeing : as I once did see. 
In my young travels through Armenia, 
An angry unicorn in his full career 
Charge with too swift a foot a Jeweller 
That watcht him for the treasure of his brow ; 
And, ere he coiihl get shelter of a tree, 
Nail him with his rich antler to the earth ; 
So D'Ambois ran upon reveng'd L'Anou, 
Who eyeing th' eager point borne in his face. 
And giving back, fell back, and in his fall 
His foe's uncurb'd sword stopt in his lioart : 
By which time all the life-strings of th' two other 
Were cut, and both fell (as their spirit (lew) 
Upwards: and still hunt honor at the view. 
And now, of all the six, sole D'Ambois stood 
Untoueirt, save only witb the oIIkm-s' blood. 

Henry. All slain outright but he ? 

JSunfius. All slain outright but he : 
Who kneeling in the warm life of liis friends 
(All freckled with the blood his rapier rain'd) 



S(3 ENGLISH DRAMATIC P(fETS. 



He kist their pale lips, and bade both farewell. 

False Greatness. 
As cedars beaten with continual storms, 
So great nicn flourish ; and do imitate 
Unskilful statuaries, who suppose, 
In forming a Colossus, if they make him 
Straddle enough, strut, and look big, and gape, 
Their ^\ork is goodly : so men merely great, 
In their atl'ected gravity of voice, 
Soweiness of countenance, manners' cruelty. 
Authority, wealth, and all the spawn of fortune, 
Think tliey bear all the kingdom's worth before them; 
Yet ditliM" not from those Colossick statues. 
Which, with heroic forms witliout o'erspread. 
Within are nouglit but mortar, flint, and lead. 

Tlrtne. — Policy. 
as creat seamen usina all their wealth 



And skills in Neptune's deep invisible paths. 

In tall ships richly built and ribb'd with brass. 

To put a girdle round about tlie world ; 

\Vhen they have done it, coming near the haven, 

A re fain to give a warning piece, and call 

A poor staid fisherman that never past 

His country's sight, to waft and guide them in : 

So when we \\ander furthest through the waves 

Of glassy Glory, and the gulfs of State, 

Topt with all titles, spreading all our reaches, 

As if eacli private arm would sphere the earth, 

We must to Virtue for her guide resort. 

Or we shall shipwreck in our safest port. 

.V/VA- of Time 
There is a deep nick in Time's restless wheel 
For eaeli man's good, when which nick comes, it strikes; 
As Rhetorick yet works not persuasion, 
But only is a mean to make it work : 
So no man riseth by his real merit, 



BYRON'S CONSPIRACY. 87 



But when it tries clink in his Raiser's spirit. 

Difference of the English and French Courts. 
Henry. Guise. Montsurry. 

Guise. I like not their Court* fiisliion, it is too crest-fall'n 
In all observance, making demigods 
Of their great Nobles, and of their old Queenf 
An ever young and most immortal Goddess. 

Mont. No question she's the rarest Queen in Europe. 

Guise. But what's that to her immortality ? 

Henry. Assure you, cousin Guise ; so great a Courtier, 
So full of majesty and royal parts. 
No Queen in Christendom may vaunt herself. 
Her Court approves it. That's a Court indeed ; 
Not mix'd with clowneries us'd in common Houses : 
But, as Courts should be, th' abstracts of their kingdoms, 
In all the beauty, state j and worth they hold. 
So is hers amply, and by her inform'd, 
The world is not contracted in a Man, 
With more proportion and expression, 
Than in her Court her Kingdom. Our French Court 
Is a mere mirror of confusion to it. 
The King and Subject, Lord and every Slave, 
Dance a continual hay. Our rooms of state 
Kept like our stables: no place more observ'd 
Than a rude market-place ; and though our custom 
Keep his assur'd confusion from our eyes, 
'Tis ne'er the less essentially unsightly. 



BYRON'S CONSPIRACY. BY GEO. CHAPMAN. 

Byron described. 
he is a man 



Of matchless valor, and was ever happy 

In all encounters, which were still made good 

• The English. t Q- Elizabeth. 



88 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



With an unwearied sense of any toil ; 

Having continued fourteen days together 

Upon his horse ; his blood is not voluptuous, 

Nor much inclined to women ; his desires 

Are higher than his state ; and his deserts 

Not much short of the most he can desire, 

If they be weigh'd with what France feels by them 

He is past measure glorious : and that humor 

Is fit to feed his spirit, whom it possesseth 

With faith in any error ; chiefly where 

Men blow it up with praise of his perfections : 

The taste whereof in him so soothes his palate. 

And takes up all his appetite, that oft times 

He will refuse his meat, and company, 

To feast alone with their most strong conceit. 

Ambition also cheek by cheek doth march 

With that excess of glory, both sustain'd 

With an unlimited fancy, that the king, 

Nor France itself, without him can subsist. 

Melt's Glories eclipsed when they turn Traitors, 
As when the moon hath comforted the night. 
And set the world in silver of her light. 
The planets, asterisms, and whole State of Heaven, 
In beams of gold descending : all the winds 
Bound up in caves, charg'd not to drive abroad 
Their cloudy heads : an universal peace 
(Proclaim'd in silence) of the quiet earth 
Soon as her hot and dry fumes are let loose. 
Storms and clouds mixing suddenly put out 
The eyes of all those glories; the creation 
Turn'd into Chaos ; and we then desire, 
For all our joy of life, the death of sleep. 
So when the glories of our lives (men's loves, 
Clear consciences, our fames and loyalties), 
That did us worthy comfort, are cclips'd : 
Grief and disgrace invade us ; and for all 
Our night of life besides, our misery craves 
Dark earth would ope and hide us in our graves. 



BYRON'S CONSPIRACY. 89 

Opinion of the Scale of Good or Bad. 

there is no truth of any good 

To be discern 'd on earth ; and by conversion, 
Nought therefore simply bad ; but as the stuff 
Prepar'd for Arras pictures, is no picture, 
Till it be form'd, and man hath cast the beams 
Of his imaginous fancy thorough it, 
In forming ancient Kings and Conquerors 
As he conceives they look'd and were attir'd, 
Though they were nothing so : so all things here 
Have all their price set down from men's Conceits ; 
W hich niake all terms and actions good or bad, 
And are but pliant and well-color'd threads 
Put into feigned images of Truth. 

Insinuating Manners. 
We must have these lures, when we hawk for friends : 
And wind about them like a subtle River, 
That, seeming only to run on his course, 
Doth search yet, as he runs, and still linds out 
The easiest parts of entry on the shore, 
Gliding so slyly by, as scarce it touch'd, 
Yet still eats something in it. 

The Stars not able to foreshow anything. 

I am a nobler substance than the stars : 

And shall the baser over rule the better ? 

Or are they better since they are the bigger ? 

I have a will, and faculties of choice, 

To do or not to do ; and reason why 

I do or not do this : the stars have none. 

They know not why they shine, more than this Taper, 

Nor how they work, nor what. I'll cnange my course : 

I'll piece-meal pull the frame of all my thoughts : 

And where are all your Caput Algols then ? 

Your planets all being underneath the earth 

At my nativity : what can they do ? 

Malignant in aspects ! in bloody houses ! 



90 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

The Master Spirit. 
Give me a spirit that on life's rough sea 
Loves to have his sails fiU'd with a lusty wind, 
Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack. 
And his rapt ship run on her side so low, 
That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air. 
There is no danger to a man, that knows 
What life and death is : there's not any law 
Exceeds his knowledge j neither is it lawful 
That he should stoop to any other law : 
He goes before them, and commands them all, 
That to himself is a law rational. 

Vile JVatures in High Places. 

foolish Statuaries, 

That under little Saints, suppose* great bases. 

Make less (to sense) the saints : and so, where fortune 

Advanceth vile minds to states great and noble. 

She nmch the more exposeth them to shame ; 

Not able to make good, and fill their bases 

With a conformed structure. 

Innocence the Harmony of the Faculties. 
Innocence, the sacred amulet 



'Gainst all the poisons of infirmity. 

Of all misfortune, injury and death : 

That makes a man in tune still in himself; 

Free from the hell to be his own accuser ; 

Ever in quiet, endless joy enjoying, 

No strife nor no sedition in his powers ; 

No motion in his will against his reason ; 

No thought 'gainst thought ; nor (as 'twere in the confines 

Of whispering and repenting) both possess 

Only a wayward and tumultuous peace ; 

But, all parts in him friendly and secure. 

Fruitful of all best things in all worst seasons. 

He can with every wish be in their plenty : 

* Put under. 



BYRON S TKAGEDY. 9J 



When the infectious guilt of one foul crime 
Destroys the free content of all our time. 



BYRON'S TRAGEDY. BY GEO. CHAPMAN. 
King Henry the Fourth of France blesses the young Dauphin. 

My royal blessing, and the King of Heaven, 

Make thee an aged and a happy King 

Help, nurse, to put my sword into his hand. 

Hold, boy, by this ; and with it may thy arm 

Cut from thy tree of rule all traitrous branches, 

That strive to shadow and eclipse thy glories. 

Have thy old father's Angel for thy guide, 

Redoubled be his spirit in thy breast : 

Who, when this State ran like a turbulent sea, 

In civil hates and bloody enmity, 

Their wraths and envies (like so many winds) 

Settled and burst ; and like the Halcyon's birth 

Be thine, to bring a calm upon the shore : 

In which the eyes of war may ever sleep, 

As over-watch'd with former massacres. 

When guilty mad Noblesse fed on Noblesse, 

All the sweet plenty of the realm exhausted ; 

When the nak'd merchant was pursued for spoil : 

When the poor peasants frighted neediest thieves 

With their pale leanness, nothing left on them 

But meagre carcases, sustained with air. 

Wandering like ghosts aftrighted from their graves ; 

When with the often and incessant sounds 

The very beasts knew the alarum-bell. 

And hearing it ran bellowing to their home ; 

From which unchristian broils and homicides 

Let the religious sword of Justice free 

Thee, and thy kingdoms govern'd after me ; 

O Heaven ! Or if the unsettled blood of France, 

With ease and wealth, renew her civil furies, 



93 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Let all my powers be emptied in my Son ; 
To curb and end them all as I liavo done. 
Let him by virtue quite cut otl' iVom Fortune 
Her featlier'd shoulders, and her winged shoes, 
And thrust from lier light feet Ikm- turning stone; 
That she may ever tarry by his llu'one. 
And of his wortii let after ages say 
(lie iigiiting for the land, and bringing home 
Just con(|uests, loaden with his enemies' spoils), 
His father past all France in martial deeds. 
But he Ills iatiior twenty times exceeds. 

fVfiat ici- hiivr, »/•<■ sliiibt ; irliat irr toant, we think excellent. 
as a man, mateli'd with a lovely wife. 



When his most heavenly theory of her beauties 

Is dull'd and (|uite exhausted with his practice, 

He brings her forth to feasts, where he, alas, 

Falls to his viands with no thought like others, * 

That think him blest in her ; and they, poor men, 

Court, and make faces, offer service, sweat 

"With their desires' contention, break their brains 

For jests and tales, sit mute, and loose their looks, 

Far out of wit and out of countenance. 

So all men else do, what tliey have, transplant ; 

And i)lace their wealtii in thirst of what tiiey want. 

Soliloquy of k'iiig Henri/ (h/ibrratin^ on t/ie Death of a Traitot. 
O thou that governst the keen swords of Kings, 
Direct my arm in this important stroke ; 
Or hold it, being advanc'd : the weight of blood. 
Even in the basest subject, doth exact 
Deep consultation in the iiigliest King: 
For in one subject, death's unjust allrights. 
Passions, and pains, though he be ne'er so poor, 
Ask more remorse than the voluptuous spleens 
Of all Kings in the world deserve respect. 
He should Ite born grey-headed that will bear 
The weight of FiUipire. Judgment of the life, 
Free suite and reputation of a Man 



BYRON'S TRAGEDY. 03 

(If it be just and worthy) dwells so dark, 

That it denies access to sun and moon : 

The soul's eye, sharpen'd with that sacred light 

Of wliom the sun itself is hut a i)earn, 

Must only give that judgment. O how much 

Err those Kings then, that play with life and death ; 

And notliing put into their serious states 

Hut humor and their lusts; for which alone 

Men long ior kingdoms ; whose huge counterpoise 

In cares and dangers could a fool comprise, 

He would not be a King, but would be wise. 

[The Selections which I have made from this poet are sufficient to give 
an idea of that " full and heiglitenod style" which Webster makes charac- 
teristic of Chapman. Of all tlie English Play-writers, Chapman pcriiaps 
approaches nearest to Shakspoaro in tlie descriptive and didactic, in pas- 
s-ages which are less purel yih-ainatic. Dramatic imitation was not his talont. 
He could not go out of iiimself, as Siiaks|)eare could shift at pleasure, to 
inform and animate other existences, but in himself he had an eye to per- 
ceive and a soul to embrace all forms. Me would have made a great 
epic poet, if, indeed, he has not abundantly shown himself to be one ; for his 
Homer is not so properly a Translation as the Stories of Achilles and Ulysses 
rc-writton. The earnestness and passion which he lias put into evi^ry part 
of tiiese poems would be incredible to a reader of mere modern translations. 
His almost Greek zeal for the honor of his heroes is oidy jjaralleled by that 
fierce spirit of Hebrew bigotry, with which Milton, as if personating one of 
the Zealots of the old law, clothed himself when he sate down to paint the 
acts of Sampson against tliu uncircumcised. The great obstacle to Chap- 
man's Translations being read is their uncomiuerable (juaintness. He pours 
out in the same breath the most just and natural and the most violent and 
forced expressions. He seems to grasp whatever words comi; first to hand 
during the impetus of inspiration, as if all other must be inadequate to the 
divine meaning. Hut passion (the all in all in Poetry) is everywhere pre- 
sent, raising the low, dignifying the mean, and putting sense into the absurd. 
He makes his readers glow, weep, tremble, take any ad'ection which he 
pleases, be moved by words, or in spite of them, be disgusted and overcome 
their disgust. I have often thought that the vulgar misconception of Shak- 
speare, as of a wild irregular genius " in whom great faults are compensat- 
ed by great beauties," would be really true applied to Clniprnan. 15ut there 
is no scale by which to balance such disproportionate subjects as tlie faults 
and beauties of a great genius. To set oil' the former with any fairness 
against the latter, the pain which they give us should be in some propor- 
tion to the pleasure which we receive from the other. As these transport 
us to the highest heaven, tho.se should steep us in agonies infernal.] 



94 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY. BY THOMAS HEYWOOD. 

Petrocella a fair Spanish Lady loves Montferrers an English Sea Cap- 
tain, who is Captive to Valladaura a noble Spaiiiard. — Valladaxira 
loves the Lady ; and employs Montferrers to be the Messenger of his 
love to her. 

Petrocella. Montferrers. 

Pel. What art thou in thy country ? 

Mont. There, a man. 

Pet. What here? ^ 

Mont. No better than you see : a slave. 

Pet. Whose? 

Mont. His that hatli redeem'd me. 

Pet. Valladaui'a's ? 

Mont. Yes, I proclaim 't ; I that was once mine own. 
Am now become his creature. 

Pet. I perceive, 
Your coming is to make me think you noble. 
Would you persuade me deem your friend a God 1 
For only such make men. Are you a Gentleman ? 

Mont. Not here ; for I am all dejectedness. 
Captive to fortune, and a slave to want ; 
I cannot call these clothes I wear mine own, 
I do not eat but at another's cost, 
This air I breathe is borrowed ; ne'er was man 
So poor and abject. I have not so much 
In all this universe as a thing to leave, 
Or a country I can freely boast is mine. 
My essence and my being is another's. 
What should I say ? I am not anything ; 
And I possess as little. 

Pet. Tell me that ? 
Come, come, I know you to be no such man. 
You are a soldier valiant and renown'd ; 
Your carriage tried by land, and prov'd at sea ; 
Of which I have heard such full expression, 
No contradiction can persuade you less ; 
And in this faitli 1 am constant. 



A CHALLEiNGE FOR BEAUTY. 95 



Mont. A mccr worm, 
Trod on by every fate. 

Pet. Rais'd by your merit 
To be a common argument through Spain, 
And speech at Princes' tables, for your worth ; 
Your presence when you please to expose 't abroad 
Attracts all eyes, and draws them after you ; 
And those that understand you, call their friends, 
And pointing through the street, say. This is he, 
This is that brave and noble Englishman, 
Whom soldiers strive to make their precedent. 
And other men their wonder. 

Mont. This your scorn 
Makes me appear more abject to myself, 
Than all diseases I have tasted yet 
Had power to asperse upon me ; and yet, lady, 
I could say something, durst I. 

Pet. Speak 't at once. 

Mont. And yet 

Pet. Nay, but we'll admit no pause. 

Mont. I know not how my phrase may relish you, 
And loth I were to otTend ; even in what's past 
I must confess I was too bold. Farewell ; 
I shall no more distaste you. 

Pet. Sir, you 'a not ; 
I do proclaim you do not. Stay, I charge you ; 
Or, as you say you have been fortune's scorn, 
So ever prove to woman. 

Mont. You charge deeply. 
And yet now I bethink me 

Pet. As you are a soldier, 
And Englishman, have hope to be redeem'd , 
From this your scorned bondage you sustain, 
Have comfort in your mother and fair sister, 
Renown so blazed in the ears of Spain, 
1 lope to rebreathe that air you tasted first. 
So tell me 

Ment. What? 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Pet. Your apiirclionsion catch'd, 
And almost was in slioaf 

Mont. Lady, I «liall. 

Pet. And in a word. 

Mont. I will. 

Pet. Pronounce it then. 

Mont. I love you. 

Pet. lla, ha, ha. 

Mont. Still it is my misery 
Thus to be moclv'd in all things. 

Pet. Pretty, iiiitli. 

Mont. I look'd thus to be lauglit at ; my estate 
And fortunes, I confess, deserve no less ; 
'Pliat made me so unwilling to denounce 
Mine own derisions : i)ut alas ! 1 find 
No nation, sex, complexion, birth, degree, 
But jest at want, and mock at misery. 

Pel. Love me ? 

Mont. I do, 1 do ; and maugre Fate, 
And spite of all sinister evil, shall. 
And now I charge you, by that filial zeal 
You owe your father, by the inemoiy 
Of your dear mother, by the joys you hope 
In blessed marriage, by the f()rtunate issue 
8tor( (i in your womb, by thesi> and all things elw» 
That you can style with goodness ; instantly 
Without evasion, trick, or circumstance. 
Nay, least premeditation, answer me, 
Afli'ct you me, or no ? 

Pet. How speak you that ? 

Mont. Without demur or pause. 

Pet. (live me but time 
To sl(H'|) upon 't. 

Monl. 1 pardon you no minute : not so much, 
As lo apparel I be least phrase you speak. 
Speak in the shortest sentence. 

Pet. You have vanquish'd me, 
At mine own weapon : noble sir, I love you ; 



A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY. 8P| 



Anil what my heart durst never tell my tongue, 
Lest it should blab my thoughts, at last I speak, 
And iterate ; I love you. 

Mont. Oh, my liiii)])iness ! 
What wilt thou feci me still '? art thou not weary 
Of making me thy May-game, to possess me 
Of such a treasure's mighty magazine, 
Not sutler me to enjoy it ; tune with tliis hand, 
With that to give 't another ! 

Pet. You are sad. Sir; 
Be so no more : if you have been dejected. 
It lies in me to mount you to that height 
You could not aim at greater. 1 am yours. 
These lips, that only witness it in air. 
Now with this truth confirm it. [Kisses him. 

Mont. I was born to 't ; 
And it shall out at once. 

Pet. Sir, you seem passionate ; 
As if my answer pleas'd not. 

Mont. Now my death ; 
For mine own tongue must kill me : noble Lady, 
You have cndear'd me to you, but my vow 
Was, ne'er to match with any, of what state 
Or birth soever, till before the contract 
Some one thing I impose her. 
Pet. She to do it ? 

Mont. Or, if she fail me in my first demand, 
1 to abjure her ever. 

Pet. I am she, 
That beg to be imploy'd so : name a danger, 
Whose very face would fright all womanhood, 
And manhood put in trance, nay, whose aspect 
Would ague such as should but hear it told ; 
Ikit to the sad behohicr, prove like those 
That gazed upon Medusa's snaky locks. 
And turn'd them into marble : these and more, 
Should you but speak 't. Id do. 
Mont. And swear to this ? 

PART I. 8 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Pet. I vow it by my honor, my best hopes, 
And all that I wish gracious : name it then, 
For I am in a longing in my soul, 
To show my love's expression. 

Mont. You shall then 

Pet. I'll do it, as I am a Virgin j 
Lie it within mortality, I'll do it. 

Mont. You shall 

Pet. I will : that which appears in you 
So terrible to speak, I'll joy to act ; 
And take pride in performance. 

Mont. Then you shall 

Pet. What soldier, what ? 

Mont. — love noble Valladaura ; 
And at his soonest appointment marry him. 

PQt. Then I am lost. 

Miracle of Beauty. 
I remember,* 
There lived a Spanish Princess of our name, 
An Isabella too, and not long since;, 
Who from her palace jivindows stcdfastly 
Gazing upon the Sun, her hair took fire. 
Some augurs held it as a prodigy : 
I rather think that she was Latona's brood, 
And that Apollo courted lier bright hair ; 
Else, envying that her tresses put down his, 
He scorcht them off in envy ; nor dare I 
(From her deriv'd) expose me to his beams ; 
Lest, as he burns the Phcenix in her nest, 
Made of the sweetest aromatic wood, 
Either in love, or envy, he agree 
To use the like combustion upon me. 

* A proud Spanish Princess relates this. 



THE ROYAL KING AND THE LOYAL SUBJECT. 99 



THE ROYAL KING AND THE LOYAL SUBJECT. BY THOMAS 
HEYWOOD. 

JSToble Traitor. 
A Persian History 
I read of late, how the great Sophy once 
Flying a noble Falcon at the Heme, 
In comes by chance an Eagle sousing by : 
Which when the Hawk espies, leaves her first game, 
And boldly ventures on the King of Birds ; 
Long tugg'd they in the air, till at the length 
The Falcon (better breath'd) seiz'd on the Eagle, 
And struck it dead. The Barons prais'd the Bird, 
And for her courage she was peerless held. 
The Emperor, after some deliberate thoughts, 
Made her no less ; he caus'd a crown of gold 
To be new fram'd, and fitted to her head, 
In honor of her courage : then the Bird, 
With great applause, was to the market-place 
In triumph borne ; where, when her utmost worth 
Had been proclaimed, the common executioner 
First by the King's command took off her crown, 
And after with a sword struck off her head, 
As one no better than a noble Traitor 
Unto the King of Birds. 



A WOMAN KILL'D WITH KINDNESS : A TRAGEDY. 
BY THOMAS HEYWOOD. 

Mr. FVanfeford discovers that his Wife has been unfaithful to him. 

Mrs. Fra. O by what words, what title, or what name 
Shall I entreat your pardon ? Pardon ! oh ! 
I am as far from hoping such sweet grace. 
As Lucifer from heaven. To call you husband ! 
(O me most wretched !) I have lost that name, 
I am no more your wife. 

lofc. 



lOi) KNGLISU DRAMATIC ?OETS. 



I'nin. Spart^ thou tliy tt-ius. lor 1 will woop for tlioo, 
Ami kooj) thy oounltMiunco, for I'll hlush for thoi\ 
Now. I protost, I thuik, 'tis 1 am tainteil, 
I'or I am most »\shamM ; and 'tis more hard 
1'\m- mi> to looU upiMi thy guilty face. 
Than on tho sun's cltniv hn)\v : what wonltlst thou spoak ? 

il//\v. Fra. I woulil I had no tongue, no ears, no oyos, 
No apprehonsioJi, no capacity. 

WhetJ do you spuri\ m(> like a ilog I when tread mo 
I'nder feet ? when drag me hy the i\air ? 
'i'ho' I detierve a thousand thousand folil 
More than yiUi ean inlliel : yet, onee my hushand, 
i-'or womaiduHul, to whieh 1 am a shame, 
Thouiih oni'e an ornanuMit ; even for his sake 
'['hat hath redoeni'd our .^ouls, mark not my face, 
Nor hai'k me with your sword : hut let me go 
rtM-fiH't and uudeforn)t>d to my toiuh. 
1 am not worthy that 1 should jnevail 
111 tiu> least suit ; no. i\o{ to speak to you, 
Nor Ux)k on you, nor to ho in your presenco : 
V«>t as an ahjeot this one suit I cnivts 
'This grantinl. I am reaily for n\y grave. 

FniM. My (uul, with putieiiee arm me! rise, nay rise, 
And I'll dehato with theo. Was it for want 
'I'hou plaid'st the strumpet. Wast tliou not supply 'd 
With every pleasure, fashion, and now toy ; 
Nav even heyond niy railing ? 

Mrs. Fm. I was. 

Fran. Was it thon ilisahility us n>e ? 
Or in thine eyes setMn'd he a properer niau / 

JMrs. Fni. O no. 

Fran. Uid not 1 loilgo thee in my hosom ( 
Wear ihtv in my heart ? 

Mrn. Fra. You did. 

Fran. I did imleed, witness my tears 1 diil. 
llo hring my infants hither. (.) Nan. O Nan ; 
If neither t'tnir of shan»(\ regard o( honor. 
The blemisii of my house, nor my ilear love, 



A WOMAN KILi;i) WITH KINDNKSS. lol 



Could linvo wiililicld \Uvo iVom no lewd ii fact, 
Ydt fttr llicNi^ inliints, llui.so youiijf ImniildHH souls, 
t)ii wliosd \vl»il(i brows liiy yluuiio is cluimulorM, 
And f^rovvs ill m'oaliioss us tlioy wax in years; 
liooli hut on tlii'in, tiiid melt iiway in trars. 
Away wilii Ihcni: Icsl as \\ov spotted liody 
liatii stained iIkmi- nainos witli stripe oC bastardy, 
So her adulterous bnuitii may blast their spirits 
With her infeutious thoughts. Away with thorn. 

Mr,s. Fro. In this one life I die ten thonsand deaths. 

Fran. Stand up, stand up, I will do nothini^ rashly. 
] will retire a\\hil(! into my study. 
And thou shall hear thy sentence prescMitly., [I'lxil. 

Jlc rclurns wilk ('iianwkli, his friend. S/ic J'<t//.s- on her knees, 

Pran. My words aro roj^;istor'(l in luiaven alroady. 
With palieiKie hear me. I'll not martyr the(», 
Nor murk Ihee for a st rumpet ; hut with usaffo 
Of ninrr humility torment thy soul, 
And /./// thee even with kindncs.'i. 

I'rnn. Mr. l''rankl"ord. 

I'Viin. ( lood Mr. (!ranw«!ll. — Woman, hoar thy judgment ; 
(Jo make tlwo ready in thy best attire ; 
Toko with tlK'o all thy gowns, all thy apparel : 
liOavo nothing that did over call thoo niistn^ss, 
Or by whose si^iit, hein^ left here in the house, 
I may remember siieh a woman was. 
Choose thee a b(!(l and han}i;inji;s for thy clnunlxM" ; 
Tako with lhe(^ ovorything which hath thy mark, 
And <^et th(Mi to my mancu' seven miles oil"; 
Where live ; 'tis thine, I fre<dy give it tho(% 
My tenants by shall furnish thee with wains 
To carryall tiiy stiill" within two hours; 
No long(M' will I limit the(t my sight. 
Chooser whieli of all my servants thou lik'st host, 
And they are thino to atteiiil tho((. 

A/r.v. /'Vrt. A mild sentence. 

Fran. Hut as thou liop'st (or heaven, as thou boliev'st 



102 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Thy name's recorded in the book of life, 
I charge thee never after this sad day 
To see me or to meet mo ; or to send 
By word, or writing, gift, or otherwise, 
To move me, by thyself, or by thy friends j 
Nor cliallcnge any part in my two children. 
So farewell, Nan ; lor we will heneeforth be 
As we had never seen, ne'er more shall see. 

Mrs. Fra. How full my heart is, in mine eyes appears ; 
What wants in words, I will supply in tears. 

Fran. Come, take your coach, your stuiFj all must along; 
Servants and all make ready, all be gone. 
It was thy hand cut two hearts out of one. 

CuANWELL, Frankfohd, and Nicholas, a Servant. 

Crnn. Why do you search each room about your house, 
Now that you have dispatch'd your wife away ? 

Fran. O sir, to see that nothing may be left 
That ever was my wife's; 1 lov\l her dearly. 
And when I do but thiidc of her mdundnoss, 
My thoughts are all in hell ; to avoid which torment, 
I would not have a bodkin nor a cutf, 
A brae(>let, necklace, or rcbato wire. 
Nor anything that ever was eall'd her's, 
Lel't me, by which I might remember her. 
Seek round about. 

Nic. Here's her lute flung in a corner. 

Fran. Her lute ? Oh God ! upon this instrument 
Her lingers hiiw ran quick division, 
Swifter tlian that which now divides our hearts. 
These frets have made me pleasant, that have now 
Frets of my heart-strings made. O master Cranwell, 
Oft hatli she made this melancholy wood 
(Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance) 
Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain 
To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung, 
What pleasant strange airs have they jointly rung ! 



A WOMAN KILL'U WITH KINDNESS. 103 



Post with it after her ; now nothing's left j 
Of hor and Ium-'s I am at onco bereft. 

Nicholas overtakes Mrs. Fkankford on her journey, and delivers 

the lute. 

Mrs. Fra. 1 know the lute ; oft have I sung to thee : 
Wo both are out of tune, both out of time. 

JV/c. My master commends iiitn unto ye ; 
There's all he can fmd tliat was ever yours. 
He prays you to forget him, and so he bids you farewell. 

Mrs. Fra. I thank him, he is kind, and ever was. 
All you that have true feeling of my grief, 
That know my loss, and have relenting hearts, 
Gird me about ; and help me with your tears 
To wasii my spotted sins : my lute shall groan ; 
It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan. 
If you return unto your master, say 
(Tho' not from me, for I am unworthy 
To blast his name so with a strumpet's tongue) 
That you have seen me weep, wish myself dead. 
Nay you may say too (for my vow is past) 
Last night you saw me eat and drink my last. 
This to your master you may say and swear: 
For it is writ in heaven, and decreed here. 
Go break this lute on my coach's wheel, 
As the last music that I e'er shall make ; 
Not as my husband's gift, but my farewell 
To all earth's joy ; and so your master tell. 

Nic. I'll do your commendations. 

Mrs. Fra. O no : 
I dare not so presume ; nor to my children : 
I am disclaim'd in both, alas, I am. 
O never teach them, when they come to speak, 
To name th(! name of mother; chide their tongue 
If they by clianee light on that hated word ; 
Tell tlx-m 'tis naught, for when that word they name 
(Poor pretty souls) they harp on their own shame. 
So, now unto my coach, then to my home, 



101 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

So to my death-bed ; for from this sad hour, 

I never will nor eat, nor drink, nor taste 

Of any catos that may preserve my life : 

I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor rest. 

But when my tears have wash'd my black soul white, 

Sweet Saviour to thy hands I yield my sprite. 

Mrs. Fkanki'Oku {dying). Sir Francis Acton {her brother). 
Sir Charges Mountford. Mr. Malhy, and other of her /uw- 
hand's friends. 

Mai. How fare you, Mrs. Frankford ? 

Mrs. Fra. Sick, sick, O sick : give me some air. I pray 
Tell me, oh tell me, where is Mr. Frankford. 
Will he not deign to see me ere I die ? 

Maf. Yes, Mrs. Frankford: divers gentlemen, 
Your loving neighbors, with that just request 
Have mov'd and told him of your weak estate: 
Who, tiio' with nuicii ado to get belief. 
Examining of the general circumstance, 
Seeing your sorrow and your penitence. 
And hearing therewithal the great desire 
You have to see him ere you left the world. 
He gave to us his tiiith to follow us ; 
And sure he will bo here immediately. 

Mrs. Fra. Vou have half reviv'd me with the pleasing news : 
llaist^ me a little higher in my bed. 
Blush 1 not, brother Acton ? blush I not, sir Charles ? 
Can you not read my fault writ in my cheek ? 
Is not my crime there ? tell me, gentlemen. 

Char. Alas ! good mistress, sickness iiath not left you 
Blood ill your face enough to make you blush. 

Mrs. Fra. Then sickness like a friend my fault would hide. 
Is my husband come ? my soul but tarries 
His arrival, then I am fit for heaven. 

Acton. 1 came to chide yon, l)ni mv words of hate 
Are turn'd to pity and coiiij)assionate grief. 
I came to rate you, but my brawls, you see, 



A WOMAN KILL'D WITH KINDNESS. 105 

Melt into tears, and I must weep by thee. 
Here's Mr. Frankford now. 

Mr. Frankford enters. 

Fran, Good-morrow, brother ; morrow, gentlemen : 
God, that hath laid this cross upon our heads, 
Might ^had he pleas'd) liave made our cause of meeting 
On a more fair and more contented ground : 
But he that made us, made us to his wo. 

Mrs. Fra. And is he come ? methinks that voice I know. 

Fran. How do you, woman ? 

Mrs. Fra. Well, Mr. Frankford, well ; but shall be better 
I hope within this hour. Will you vouchsafe 
(Out of your grace, and your humanity) 
To take a spotted strumpet by the hand ? 

Fran. This hand once held my heart in faster bonds 
Than now 'tis grip'd by me. God pardon them 
That made us first break hold. 

Mrs. Fra. Amen, amen. 
Out of my zeal to heaven, whither Fm now bound, 
I was so impudent to wish you here ; 
And once more beg your pardon. O ! good man, 
And father to my children, pardon me. 
Pardon, O pardon mo : my fault so heinous is, 
That if you in this world forgive it not. 
Heaven will not clear it in the world to come. 
Faintncss hath so usurp'd upon my knees 
That kneel I cannot : but on my heart's knees 
My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet 
To beg your gracious pardon. Pardon, O pardon me! 

Fran. As freely from the low depth of my soul 
As my Redeemer hath for us given his death, 
I pardon thee ; I will shed tears for thee ; 
Pray with thee : 

And, in mere pity of thy weak estate, 
Fll wish to die with thee. 

AIL So do we all. 

Fran. Even as I hope for pardon at that day. 



106 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



When the great judge of heaven in scarlet sits, 
So be thou pardon'd. Tho' thy rash offence 
Divorc'd our bodies, thy repentant tears 
Unite our souls. 

Char. Then comfort, mistress Frankford ; 
You see your husband hath forgiven your fall ; 
Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your fainting soul. 

Susan. How is it with you ? 

Acton. How d'ye feel yourself? 

Mrs. Fra. Not of this world. 

Fran. I see you are not, and I weep to see it. 
My wife, the mother to my pretty babes ; 
Both those lost names I do restore thee back, 
And with this kiss I wed thee once again : 
Tho' thou art wounded in thy honor'd name, 
And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest ; 
Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou diest. 

Mrs. Fra. Pardon'J on earth, soul, thou in heaven art f^ee 
Once more. Thy wife dies thus embracing thee. 

[Hcywood is a sort of prose Sliakspc;u-c. His scenes arc to the full as 
nudinil and affecting. But we miss the Poet, that which in Shakspeare 
always appears out and above the surface of the nattire. Heywood's char- 
acters, his Country Gentlemen, &c., are exactly what we see (but of the 
best kind of what we sec) in life. Shakspeare makes us beli(!vc, while we 
are among his lovely creations, that they arc nothing but what we are 
familiar with, as in dreams new things seem old : but we awake, and sigh 
for the difference.] 



THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER. BY THOMAS HEYWOOD. 

Youn^ Geraldine comes home from his Travels, and finds his Playfellow, 
that should have been his M^ife, married to old Wincott. The old Gen- 
tleman receives him hosjiitably, as a Friend of his Father's: takes 
delight to hear him tell of his Travels, and treats him in all respects 
like a secotid Father ; his house being always opeti to him. Young 
Geraldine and the Wife agree not to ivrong the old Gentleman. 

Wife. Geraldine. 

Gcr. We now are left alone. 

Wife. Why, say we be ; who should be jealous of us ? 



THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER. 101 



This is not first of many hundred nights, 
That we two have been private, from the first 
Of our acquaintance ; when our tongues but dipt 
Our mother's tongue, and could not speak it plain, 
We knew each other : as in stature, so 
Increast our sweet society. Since your travel. 
And my late marriage, through my husband's love. 
Mid-night has been as mid-day, and my bed-chamber 
As free to you, as your own father's house, 
And you as welcome to it. 

Ger. I must confess, 
It is in you, your noble courtesy ; 
In him, a more than common confidence, 
And, in his age, can scarce find precedent. 

Wife. Most true : it is withal an argument, 
That both our virtues are so deep imprest 
In his good thoughts, he knows we cannot err. 

Ger. A villain were he, to deceive such trust. 
Or (were there one) a nmch worse character. 

Wife. And she no less, whom either beauty, youth. 
Time, place, or opportunity could tempt 
To injure such a husband. 

Ger. You deserve, 
Even for his sake, to be for ever young ; 
And he, for yours, to have his youth renew'd : 
So mutual is your true conjugal love. 
Yet had the fates so pleas'd — 

Wife. I know your meaning. 
It was once voic'd, that we two should have matcht . 
The world so thought and many tongues so spake ; 
But heaven hath now dispos'd us other ways : 
And being as it is (a thing in me 
Which I protest was never wisht nor sought) 
Now done, I not repent it. 

Ger. In those times 
Of all the treasures of my hopes and love 
You wor(> th' Exchequer, they were stored in you ; 
And had not my unfortunate Travel crost them, 



108 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

They had been here reserv'd still. 

Wife. Troth they Iiad, 
I should have been your trusty Treasurer. 

Ger. However, let us love still, I entreat ; 
That, neighborhood and breeding will allow ; 
So much, the laws divine and humble both 
Twixt brother and a sister will approve : 
Heaven then forbid that they should limit us 
Wish well to one another. 

Wife. If they should not, 
We might proclaim they were not charitable, 
Which were a deadly sin but to conceive. 

Ger. Will you resolve me one thing ? 

Wife. As to one, 
That in my bosom hath a second place, 
Next my dear husband. 

Ger. That's the thing I crave, 
And only that ; to have a place next him. 

Wife. Presume on that already, but perhaps 
^ou mean to stretch it further. 

Ger. Only thus far : 
Your husband's old ; to whom my soul does wish 
A Nestor's age, so much he merits from me ; 
Yet if (as proof and nature daily teach. 
Men cannot always live, especially 
Such as are old and crazed) lie be called hence. 
Fairly, in full maturity of time. 
And we two be reserv'd to after life; 
Will you confer your widow-hood on me ? 

Wife. You ask the thing 1 was about to beg; 
Your tongue hath spoke mine own thoughts. 

Ger. 'Tis enough, that word 
Alone instates me happy : now, so please you. 
We will divide-; you to your private chamber, 
I to find out my friend. 

Wife. You are now my brother ; 
But then, my second husband. [They part. 



THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER. 109 

Voung Oeraldine absents himself from tht house of Mr. Wincott lancet 
than is usual to him The old (gentleman sends for him, to find out the 
reason. He pleads his Father's commands. 

Wincott. Geraldine. 

Ger. With due acknowledgment 
Of all your more than many courtesies : 
You have been my second father, and your wife 
My noble and chaste mistress ; all your servants 
At my command ; and this your bounteous table 
As free and common as my father's house : 
Neither 'gainst any or tlio least of these 
Can I commence this quarrel. 

Win. What might then be 
The cause of this constraint, in thus absenting 
Yourself from such as love you ? 

Ger. Out of many, 
I will propose some few : the care I have 
Of your (as yet unblemished) renown ; 
The untoucht honor of your virtuous wife ; 
And (wliich I value least, yet dearly too) 
My own fair reputation. 

Win. How can these 
In any way be question 'd ? 

Ger. Oh, dear sir. 
Bad tongues have been too busy with us all ; 
Of which I never yet had time to tliink, 
But with sad thoughts and griefs unspeakable. 
It hath been whisper'd by some wicked ones, 
But loudly thunder'd in my father's ears. 
By some that have maligned our happiness 
(Heaven, if it can brook slander, pardon them). 
That this my customary coming hither, 
.lath been to base and sordid purposes; 
To wrong your bed, injure her chastity. 
And be mine own undoer : which, how false — 

Win. As heaven is true, 1 know it — 

Ger. Now this caluinnv 



ItO KNIJLISII l)N AMATIC POETS. 



Arriving lirst unto my father's ears, 

Ills ciisy iiaturo was indiicod to think 

Tiiat tJR'se tliiiii>s miglit juvrliajjs bo possible: 

I answor'd him, as I would do to heaven. 

And clear'd myself in his suspicions thoughts 

As truly, as the high all-knowing judge 

Shall of those stains ac'(|uit mo; which are merely 

7\.sporsit)ns and untrutiis. The good old man 

l*osswsscd with my sincerity'; and yet careful 

Of your renown, her honor, and my fame. 

To stop the worst that scandal could inflict 

And to prevent false rumors, charges me 

Tho cause romov'd, to take away th' effect ; 

Which only could be, to forbear your house: 

And this upon his blessing. You hear all. 

Wm. And I of all acquit you : this your absence, 
With \s hich my love mf>st cavill'd, orators 
In yt)ur belialf. 1 (ad such things pass'd botwixt you, 
Not throats nor eludings could have driv'n you hence; 
It j)loads in your behalf, and speaks in her's ; 
And arms me with a doublo confidence 
Both of your friendship and her loyalty. 
1 am happy in you botli, anti only doubtful 
Whii 1, of \ou two dotii most impart my love. 
\ou shall nut hence to-night. 

Gcr. Pray, pardon, sir. 

Wi7i. You are in your lodging. 

Gcr. But my father's charge. 

Win. My conjuration shall dispense with that; 
You may be up as early as you please, 
lint hence to-night you shall not. 

Ger. You are powerful. 

Trnvrllers Stories. 
Sir, my husl)and 
I lath took much pleasun^ in your strange discourse 
About Jerusalem and tho Holy Land ; 
How tJie new city difl'ers from the old ; 



IIIK KNCLlSll TRAVELLER. lit 



What ruins of tht Temple yet remain j 
And whether Sion, and those liills alxiut, 
VVitli these adjacent towns and villages, 
Keep that proportioned distance as we read : 
And then in Roi:ie, of that great Pyramis 
Rear'd in the front, on four lions mounted ; 
How many of tiiose Idol temples stand, 
First dedicated to their iiealhen gods, 
Which ruin'd, which to better use repair'd ; 
Of their Pantheon, and their Capitol ; 
What structures are demolish'd, what remain. 

And wiiat imorc j)leasure to an old man's ear. 

That never drew nave his own country's air. 
Than hear such things related ? 

Shipwreck by Drink. 

This G(Mitleman and I 
Passt but just now by your next neighbor's house, 
Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel, 
An unthrift youth : his father now at sea. 

" There this night 

Was a great feast. 

In the height of their carousing, all their brains 

Warm'd with the heat of wine, discourse was offer'd 

Of ships and storms at sea : when suddenly. 

Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives 

The room wlierein tlipy qualFM to be a Pinnace, 

Moving and floating, and the cotifus'd noise 

To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners ; 

That their unsteadfast footing did proceed 

From rocking of the vessel : this conceiv'd. 

Each one begins to apprehend th(^ danger. 

And to look out tor safely. Fly, saith one. 

Up to the main top, and discover. He 

Climbs up the bed-post to the tester there. 

Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards ; 

And wills them, if they'll save their ship and lives. 

To cast their lading over-board. At this 



112 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

All fall to work, and hoist into the street, 

As to the sea, what next came to their hand. 

Stools, tables, tressels, trenchers, bed-steds, cups, 

Pots, plate, and glasses. Here a fellow whistles ; 

They take him for the boatswain : one lies struggling 

Upon the floor, as if he swam for life : 

A third takes the base-viol for the cock-boat. 

Sits in the belly on't, labors, and rows ; 

His oar, the stick with which the fiddler played : 

A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to scape 

(As did Arion) on the dolphin's back. 

Still fumbling on a gittcrn. The rude multitude, 

Watching without, and gaping for the spoil 

Cast from the windows, went by th' ears about it ; 

The Constable is call'd to atone the broil ; 

Which done, and hearing such a noise within 

Of eminent ship-wreck, enters th' house, and finds them 

In this confusion : they adore his Staff, 

And think it Neptune's Trident ; and (hat he 

Comes with his Tritons (so they call'd his watch) 

To calm the tempest and appease the waves : 

\nd at this point we left them. 

[This piece of pleasant exaggeration (which, for its life and humor, might 
have been told or acted by Petruchio himself,) gave rise to the title of 
Cowley's Latin Play, Naufragium Joculare, and furnished the idea of the 
best scene in it. Heywood's Preface to this Play is interesting, as it shows 
the heroic indifference about i)osterity, which some of these great writers 
seem to have felt. There is a magnanimity in Authorsliip as in everything 
else. 

" If Reader thou hast of this play been an Auditor, there is less apology 
to be used by entreating thy patitnco. This Tragi-comedy (being one re- 
served amongst 220 in which I had cither an entire hand, or at the least a 
main finger) coming accidentally to tlie press, and I having intelligence 
thereof, thought it not fit that it should i^ass as filius populi, a Bastard with- 
out a fdher to acknowledge it: true it is that my plays are not exposed to 
the world in volumes, to bciir the title of works (as others*) : one reason 
is, that many of them, by shifting and change of comj)anies, have been neg- 
ligently lost. Others of them are still retained in the hands of some 
actors, who think it against their peculiar profit to have them come in print, 

* He seems to glance at Ben Jonson. 



THE LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES. 113 



and a third that it never was any great ambition in nic to Ijc in this kind 
voluminously read. All that I have further to say at this time is only this : 
censure I entreat as favorably as it is exposed to thy view freely. 

" Ever 
" Studious of tiiy Pleasure and Profit, 

" Th. Hkywood." 
Of the 220 pieces which he here speaks of having been concerned in, 
only 25, as enumerated by Dodsley, have cbmc down to us, for the reasons 
assigned in the preface. The rest have perished, exposed to the casualties 
of a theatre. Heywood's ambition seems to have been confined to the plea- 
sure of hearing the Players speak his lines while he lived. It docs not 
appear that he ever contemplated the possibility of being read by after ages. 
What a slender pittance of fame was motive sufficient to the production of 
such Plays as the English Traveller, the Challenge for Beauty, and the 
Woman Killed with Kindness ! Posterity is bound to take care that a 
Writer loses nothing by such a noble modesty.] 



THE LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES : A COMEDY. BY THOMAS 
HEYWOOD AND RICHARD BROOME. 

Mr. Generous, by taking off a Bridle from a seeming Horse in his Sta- 
ble, discovers it to he his Wife, lohohas transformed herself by Magical 
Practices, and is a Witch. 

Mr. Generous. Wife, Robw, a groom. 

Gen. My blood is turned to ice, and all my vitals 
Have ceas'd their working. Dull stupidity 
Surpriseth me at once, and hath arrested 
That vigorous agitation, which till now 
Exprest a life within me. I, methinks, 
Am a meer marble .statue, and no man. 
Unweave my age, O time, to my first thread ; 
Let me lose fif*.y years, in ignorance spent ; 
That, being made an infant once again, 
I may begin to know. What, or where am I, 
To be thus lost in wonder ? 

Wife. Sir. 

Gen. Amazement still pursues me, how am I chang'd, 
Or brought ere 1 can understand myself 
Into this new world ! 

PART I. 9 



J 14 ENGLISH DllAMATiC POETS. 



Roh. You w ill l)clieve no witehos ? 

Gen. This makes me believe all, aye, anything ; 
And that myself am nothing. Prithee, Robin, 
Lay me to myself open ; what art thou, 
Or this new transforni'd creature ? 

Roh. 1 am Robin ; 
And this your wife, my mistress. 

Gen. Tell me, the earth 
Shall leave its seat, and mount to kiss the moon ; 
Or that the moon, enamor'd of the earth, 
Shall leave her sphere, to stoop to us thus low. 
What, what's this in my hand, that at an instant 
Can from a four-legg'd creature make a thing 
So like a wife ? 

Roh. A bridle ; a jugling bridle. Sir. 

Gen. A bridle ! Hence, enchantment. 
A viper were more safe within my hand, 
Than this charm'd engine. — 
A witch ! my wife a witch ! 
The more I strive to unwind 
Myself fn)m this meander, I the more 
Therein am intricated. Prithee, woman, 
Art thou a witch ? 

Wife. It cannot be denied, 
I am such a curst creature. 

Gen. Keej) aloof: 
And do not come too near me. O my trust ; 
Have I, since first I understood myself. 
Been of my soul so chary, still to study 
What best was for its health, to renounce all 
The works of that black fiend with my best force ; 
And hath that serpent twined me so about, 
That I must lie so often and so long 
With a devil in my bosom ? 

Wife. Pardon, Sir. [SAe looks down.'] 

Gen. Pardon ! can such a thing as that be hoped ? 
Lift up thine eyes, lost woman, to yon hills ; 
It must be thence expected : look not down 



THE LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES. 



Unto that horrid dwelling, which thou hast sought 
At such dear rate to purchase. Prithee, tell me 
(For now I can believe) art thou a witch? 

Wife. I am. 

Gen. With that word I am thunderstruck, 
And know not what to answer ; yet resolve me, 
Hast thou made any contract with that fiend. 
The enemy of mankind ? 

Wife. O I have. 

Gen. What 1 and how far ? 

Wife. I have promis'd him my soul. 

Gen. Ten thousand times better thy body had 
Been promis'd to the stake ; aye, and mine too, 
To have suffer'd with thee in a hedge of flames. 

Than such a compact ever had been made. Oh 

Resolve me, how far doth that contract stretch ? 

Wife. What interest in this Soul myself could claim, 
I freely gave him ; but his part that made it 
I still reserve, not being mine to give. 

Gen. O cunning devil : foolish woman, know, 
Where he can claim but the least little part. 
He will usurp the whole. Thou'rt a lost woman. 

Wife. I hope not so. 

Gen. Why, hast thou any hope ? 

Wife. Yes, sir, I have. 

Gen. Make it appear to me. 

Wife. I hope I never bargain'd for that fire. 
Further than penitent tears have power to quench. 

Gen. I would see some of them. 

Wife. You behold them now 
(If you look on me with charitable eyes) 
Tinctur'd ;n blood, blood issuing from the heart. 
Sir, I am sorry ; when I look towards heaven, 
I beg a gracious pardon ; when on you, 
Mathinks your native goodness should not be 
Less pitiful than they ; 'gainst both I have err'd ; 
From both 1 beg atonement. 

Gen. Maj I presume 't ? 



lie ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Wife. I kneel to both your iiiorcios. 

Gen. Knowcst thou what 
A witch is ? 

Wife. Alas, none hotter ; 
Or after mature recollection can be 
More sad to think on't. 

Gen. Tell me, are those tears 
As full of true hearted penitence, 
As mine of sorrow to behold what state, 
What desi)o rate state, thoii'rt fain in '? 

Wife. Sir, they are. 

Gen. Rise ; and, as I do you, so heaven pardon me ; 
We all oflend, but from such falling off 
Defend us ! Well, I do remember, wife, 
When I first took thee, 'twas /'or good and had : 
O ehani>e thy bad to good, (hat 1 may keep thee 
(As then we past our faiths) 'till Death us sever. 

woman, thou hast need to weep thyself 
Into a fountain, such a peiiilent spring 
Asniay have j)ovver to (pieneh invisible flames ; 
In which my eyes shall aid: too little, all.* 

Prank JlospitaUly. 
Gentlemen, welcome ; 'tis a word I use ; 
From me expect no further compliment ; 
Nor do I name it often at one meeting ; 
Once spoke, to those that understand me best, 
And know I always j)urpose as I sjieak, 
Hath ever yet sulHced : so let it you. 
Nor do 1 love that common phrase of guests, 
As, we make bold, or, we are troublesome. 
Wo take you unprovided, and the like ; 

1 know you understanding Gentlemen, 

And knowing me, cannot persuade yourselves 

With m(> you shall be troublesome or bold. ^ 

Nor shall you find 

• C't)inp;iro lliis with a story in the Araliian Nights, wlicrc a man discor 
ers his wile to lu' a ^oiil. 



A IWIK (iHAUKKL. in 



Hoinf^ si't to iiii'ut, tliat I '11 exouso your liire, 
Or say, I uiu sorry it fulls out, so poor, 
And, liud 1 known your roniinjf, wo M havo had 
Sui'li tliinjrs and sut;li ; nor hUinio my Cook, to say 
This dish or that halh nol boon sauo't with can; : 
Words (itting host a common hostess' mouth, 
VViion there's ju'rluips sonio just cause of disliko; 
Hut not the table of a (jlenllenian. 



A FAIK QUARREL: A COMKDY. ItY I'llOMAS MIDDLCTON 
AND VVIIJ-IAM KOWLl'.Y. 

Cii/ihiiti .flf:;n\ in a ilispiili- ii'il/i <i Culoiicl his frinul, rcrainrs from 
thr Colonel tlir ii/i/irl/nlion. of Son of a H^liorr. Jl rlinllrnfi;r i.i ^ivm 
and arrrptid : hut llir (Uiptain, brforv he ffocti to the field, /,v ii'illinfr (o 
be confirnird of Inn mothtr's lionor from Iter mm lijm l.adi/ .If^rr 
beinfi i/iir.stionrd li// lirr Son, to jirrvrnt a dnri, falsi ly slanders lirrsrif 
of vnrliaslili/. The Captain, Ihinhinn that hr has n bad causr, 
refusrs to Ji^ht. Hut Itciiifi rrproarhrd hff thr (-olonrl ivith romardirr, 
he estrrnis that hr has noir sujlicicnt ransv. for a i/uarrcl, in thr rindi- 
cating of his honor from that asprrsion ; and draws, and disarms his 
opponent. 

Laiiv. ('ai'tain, her Son. 

La. Whore loft you your di-iir fricMid tlu; ('olonel ? 

Cai). Oh tho dear ('dloiul, I should inccl him s(»on. 

La. Oh fail him not then, lie 's a (iciitlcniiui 
The fanu! and reputation of your tinu! 
Is much enj^u<;'(l to. 

Cap. Yes, and you knew all, mother. 

La. I thought 1 M known so nmch of his fair goodness, 
More could not have? been look'd liir. 

Cap. () yes, yes, Madam : 
And this his lust exceeded all the rest. 

La. l''or gratitude's sake let me know this I prithee. 

Cap. TIh^i thus ; and I desire your (!ensinr freely, 
Whether it app(!ar'd not a strange noble kindness in him. 

La. Trust me, I long to hoar't. 



118 KNOI.ISII |)i; AMATJC I'OETS. 



Cap. You know lit>'.s Imsly ; 
'riiiil by tilt* way. 

La. So ni'o tlio bost ooiulitioiis : 
Your fatli(»r was llio like. 

( '(If). I Ix'f^iii now 
'l\i tloiilit mo iiion* : wliy am not 1 so too tlion ? 
Illoiul follows Mood through lorly jfonorations ; 
And I 'vo a slow-paoM wrath: u slirc^wtl dilonuna. — [Aside. 

La. Woll, as you wcro sayinjj;, Sir. 

(Vf/'. Marry, thus, tfood Madam. 

'rhrrt> was in company a lonl-moulird villain . 

Stay, stay 

Wiu) should 1 lik(M» him to that you have soon '? 

]lv comes so near one that I would not n\at(!h him with, 

l''ailli, jiisl o' llic ('olond's pitidi ; he's novor tlu> worse man; 

UsuiHM's havt* liccn compar'd to maj;istratcs, 

l'iXtortion(<rs to lawyiirs, and tht> like, 

r>iit llit>y all prt)Vt* U(<'»m" tlu^ worse men lor lliat. 

Lit. That's had »Mion;^'h, tla^v need not. 

Cap. This rndt> fellow, 
A shame to all hmuanilv and maimers, 
Ureath(\s from tln^ roltt>nness of his ^all and malice, 
Tln' foulest stain that <>V(M" nian's tiime hiemish'd. 
Part of which fell upon your honor, n\adam. 
Which heij>htt'nM my alllictioi\. 

L(i. Mints my hon(u\ Sir? 

l\ti>. 'I'ho Colonel soon cnra^'d (as he's all lonehwood) 
Takt's lirt> hcfort^ me, nuvk(>s tlic ((uarrtd his, 
Appoints the field ; my wrath couhl not ho heard. 
His was so hijj;h picht, so jfloriously mounted. 
Now what's the iVi(M\dly tear that liijhts within nu>, 
Shoidd his hrave nohle fury nndertakt* 
A cuust* that wt>re unjust in our defeiuu', 
And so to los(^ him everlastiiii^ly , 
In that dark depth where all hiid tpiarnds sink 
Ne\»>r to rise aj-^ain, what pity "twtM'e, 
First to die here, and never to die tht>rt< ? 

Lti. \Vh\ wlials the (jnarrei, speak. Sir, that should riso 



A I ■AIR (illAUKKL. 119 



Such fearful doubt, my honor bearing part on 't ? 
The words, wimte'er tlioy were 

Cap. Son of a whore. 

L(i. 'J'hou licst : 
And were my love ten thousand times more to thee, 
Which is as much now as e'er motiier's was, 
So thou shouldst feel my anger. Dost thou call 
That quarrel doubtful ? where are all my merits ? [Strike.s him. 
Not oiK^ stand up to t(dl this man his error? 
Thou mij^ht'sl as well call tlie Sun's triilii in question, 
As thy birth or my honor. 

Cap. Now blessings erown you Ibr 't ; 
It is the joyfuH'st blow that e'er flesh felt. 

La. Nay, stay, stay, Sir ; thou art not h^fl so soon : 
This is no question to be sliglited oil", 
And at your pleasure closed up fair again. 
As though you'd never touch'd it, no ; honor doubted. 
Is honor deeply wounded ; and it rages 
Mop! than a eonnnoii smart, being of thy making. 
For thee to fear my trutli it kills my eond()rt. 
WIktc should liime .seek for her reward, wljen he 
That is her own by the great tye of blood 
Is furthest oir in bounty : O poor 'Goodness, 
Tiiut only pay'st fbyscif with thy own works ; 
J''or nothing elsii looks towards thee. TcM me, pray, 
Whicii of my loving cares do.st thou retjiiite 
With this vile thought ? which of my prayers or wishes '{ 
Many thou ow'.st me for. This seven year hast thou known me 
A widow, ordy married to my vow ; 
'I'hat's no small witnt^ss of my faith and love 
To him that in life was thy honor'd father : 
And live I now to know that good mistrusted ? 

Cap. No, it shall appear that my grief is chearful ! 
I'\)r never was a mother's rej)utation 
Noi)lier defended ; 'tis my joy and [)rido 
1 hav<! a firmness to bestow upon it. 

La. What 's that you said, Sir ? 

Cap. 'Twcre too bold and soon yet 



120 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

To crave forgiveness of you. I will earn it first. 
Dead or alive I know I shall enjoy it. 
La. What 's all this, Sir ? 
Cap. My joy 's beyond expression : 
I do but think how wretched I had been, 
Were this another's quarrel and not mine. 
La. Why, is it your's ? 
Cap. Mine ? think me not so miserable. 
Not to be mine : then were I worse than abject. 
More to be loath'd than vileness, or sin's dunghill : 
Nor did I fear your goodness, faithful Madam, 
But came with greedy joy to be confirm'd in 't, 
To give the nobler onset : then shines valor, 
And admiration from her fix'd sphere draws, 
When it comes burnish'd with a righteous cause; 
Without which I'm ten fathoms under coward. 
That now am ten degrees above a man. 
Which is but one of virtue's easiest wonders. 

La. But pray stay : all this while I understand you 
The Colonel was the man. 

Cap. Yes, he's the man, 
The man of injury, reproach, and slander, 
Which I must turn into his soul again. 

La. The Colonel do 't ! that 's strange. 

Cap. The villain did it : 
That 's not so strange. Your blessing, and your leave — 

La. Come, come, you shall not go. 

Cap. Not go ? were death 
Sent now to summon me to my eternity, 
I 'd put him off an hour: why, the whole world. 
Has not chains strong enough to bind me from it : 
The strongest is my Reverence for you. 
Which if you force upon me in this case, 
I must be forced to break it. 

La. Stay, I say. 

Cap. In anything command me but in this. Madam. 

La. 'Las, I shall lose him. You will hear me first ? 

Cap. At my return I will. 



A FAIR QUARREL 121 



La. You '11 never hear me more then. 

Cap. How ! 

La. Come back, I say ! 
You may well think there 's cause, I call so often. 

Cap. Ha ! cause ? what cause ? 

La. So much, you must not go. 

Cap. Must not, why ? 

La. I know a reason for 't ; 
Which I could wish you 'd yield to, and not know : 
If not, it must come forth. Faith, do not know ; 
And yet obey my will. 

Cap. Why, I desire 
To know no other than the cause I have. 
Nor should you wish it, if you take your injury ; 
For one more great I know the world includes not. 

La. Yes ; one that makes this nothing : — yet be ruled, 
And if you understand not, seek no farther. 

Cap. I must, for this is nothing. 

La. Then take all ; 
And if amongst it you receive that secret 
That will offend you, though you condemn me, 
Yet blame yourself a little, for perhaps 
I would have made my reputation sound 
Upon another's hazard with less pity ; 
But upon yours I dare not. 

Cap. How ? 

La. I dare not : 
'Twas your own seeking, this. 

Cap. If you mean evilly, 
I cannot understand you, nor for all the riches 
This life has, would I. 

La. Would you never might ! 

Cap. Why, your goodness, that I joy to fight for. 

La. In that you neither right your joy nor me. 

Cap. What an ill orator has virtue got here ! 
Why, shall I dare to think it a thing possible, 
That you were ever false ? 

Tm. Oh, fearfully ; 



i22 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



As much as you come to. 

Cap. Oh silence cover me ; 
1 've felt a deadlier wound than man can give me. 
False ? 

La. I was betray 'd to a most sinful hour 
By a corrupted soul I put in trust ctjce, 
A kinswoman. 

Cap. Where is she ? let me pay her. 

La. Oh dead long since. 

Cap. Say then, she has all her wages. 
False ? do not say 't ; for honor's goodness do not ; 
You never could be so : he I call'd father 
Deserv'd you at your best ; when youth and merit 
Could boast at highest in you, you 'd no grace 
Or virtue that he match'd not ; no delight 
That you invented, but he sent it crown'd 
To your full wishing soul. 

La. That heaps my guiltiness. 

Cap. O were you so unhappy to be false 
Both to yourself and me, but to me cliietiy ? 
What a day's hope is here lost, and with it 
The joys of a just cause ! Had you but thought 
On such a noble quarrel, you 'd lia' died 
Ere you 'd ha' yielded, for the sin's hate first. 
Next for the hate of this hour's cowardice. 
Curst be the heat that lost me such a cause, 
A work that I was made for. Quench, my spirit, 
And out with honor's flaming lights within thee : 
Be dark and dead to all respects of manhood ; 
I never shall iiave use of valor more. 
Put off your vow for shame : why should you hoard up 
Such justice for a barren widowhood ; 
That was so injurious to the faith of wedlock ? 
I should be dead : for all my life's work 's ended. 
1 dare not fight a stroke now, nor engage [^Exit Lady. 

The noble resolution of my friends ; 



x\ FAIR QUARREL. 123 



Eiiter two Friends of Captain Agee's. 

That were more vile. They 're here. Kill me, my shame. 
I am not for the fellowship of honor, 

1. Friend. Captain, fie, come. Sir : we 've been seeking for you 
Very late to-day ; this was not wont to be. 

Your enemy 's in the field. 

Cap. Truth enters chearfully. 

2. Friend. Good faith, Sir, you 'vc a royal quarrel on ''t. 
Cap. Yes, in some other country, Spain or Italy, 

It would be held so. 

1. Friend. How ! and is 't not here so ? 

Cap. 'Tis not so contumeliously receiv'd 
In these parts, and you mark it. 

1. Friend. Not in these ? 

Why prithee what is more, or can be ? 

Cap. Yes : 
That ordinary Commotioner the lye 
Is father of most quarrels in this climate. 
And held here capital, and you go to that. 

2. Friend. But, Sir, I hope you will not go to tliat, 
Or change your own for it ; son of a- whore f 

Why there 's the lye down to posterity ; 
The lye to birth, the lye to honesty. 
Why would you cozen yourself so and beguile 
So brave a cause, Manhood's best masterpiece ? 
Do you ever hope for one so brave again ? 

Cap. Consider then the man, the Colonel, 
Exactly worthy, absolutely noble, 
However spleen and rage abuses him : 
And 'tis not well nor manly to pursue 
A man's infirmity. 

1. Friend. O miracle ! 
So hopeful valiant and complete a Captain 
Possest with a tame devil : come out, tliou spoilest 
The most improv'd young soldier of seven kingdoms, 
Made Captain at nineteen ; which was dcserv'd 
The year before, but bono comes behind still : 



124 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Come out, I say : this was not wont to be, 
That spirit ne'er stood in need of provocation, 
Nor shall it now. Away, Sir. 

Cap. Urge me not. 

1. Friend. By Manhood's reverend honor but we must. 

Cap. I will not fight a stroke. 

1. Friend. O blasphemy 
To sacred valor. 

Cap. Lead me where you list. 

1. Friend. Pardon this traiterous slumber, clog'd with evils 
Give Captains rather wives than such tame devils. 

The Field. 
Enter Captain Ager with his two Friends. 
Cap. Well, your wills now. 

1. Friend. Our wills ? our loves, our duties 
To honor'd fortitude : what wills have we 
But our desires to nobleness and merit, 
Valor's advancement, and the sacred rectitude 
Due to a valorous cause ? 

Cap. Oh, tiiat 's not mine. 

2. Friend. War has his Court of Justice, that 's the field, 
Where all cases of Manhood are determined. 

And your case is no mean one. 

Cap. True, then 't were virtuous ; 
But mine is in extremes, foul and unjust. 
Well, now ye 've got me hither, ye are as far 
To seek in your desire as at first minute : 
For by the strength and honor of a vow 
I will not lift a finger in this quarrel. 

1. Friend. How ! not in this ! be not so rash a sinner. 
Why, Sir, do you ever hope to fight again then ? 
Take heed on 't, you must never look for that. 
Why, the univei-sal stock of the World's injury 
W^ill be too poor to find a quarrel for you. 
Give up your right and title to desert, Sir ; 
If you fail virtue here, she needs you not 
All your time after ; let her take this wrong, 



A FAIR QUARREL. IQf) 



And never presume then to serve her more : 

Bid farewell to the integrity of Arms, 

And let that honorable name of soldier 

Fall from you like a shiver'd wreath of laurel, 

By thunder struck from a desertless forehead 

That wears another's right by usurpation. 

Good Captain, do not wilfully cast away 

At one hour all the fame your life has won. 

This is your native seat. Here you should seek 

Most to preserve it ; or if you will doat 

So much on life, poor life, which in respect 

Of life in. honor is but death and darkness. 

That you will prove neglectful of yourself 

(Which is to me too fearful to imagine) 

Yet for that virtuous Lady's cause, your Mother, 

Her reputation, dear to nobleness. 

As grace to penitence ; whose fair memory 

E'en crowns fame in your issue ; for that blessedness, 

Give not this ill place, but in spite of hell 

And all her base fears be exactly valiant. 

Cap. Oh ! oh ! 

2. Friend. Why, well said ; there's fair hope in that. 
Another such a one. 

Cap. Came they in thousands, 
'Tis all against you. 

1. Friend. Then poor friendless Merit, 
Heav'n be good to thee, thy Professor leaves thee. 

Enter Colonel and his two friends. 

He 's come ; do you but draw ; we '11 fight it for you. 

Cap. I know too much to grant that. 

1 . Fnend. O dead manhood ! 
Had ever such a cause so faint a servant ? 
Shame brand me if I do not suffer for him. 

Col. I 've heard, Sir, you 've been guilty of much boasting 
For your brave earliness at such a meeting, 
You 've lost the glory of that way this morning : 
I was the first to-day. 



126 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Cap. So were you ever 
In my respect, Sir. 

1. Friend. O most base prseludium ! 

Cap. I never thouglit on victory our mistress 
With greater reverence than I have your worth, 
Nor ever lovM her better. 
Success in you has been my absolute joy, 
And when I 've wish'd content I 've wish'd your friendship. 

Col. I come not hither, Sir, for an encomium. 
I came provided 

For storms and tempests, and the foulest season 
That ever rage let fortli, or blew in wildness 
From the incensed prison of man's blood. 

Cap. Tis otherwise with me : I come witli mildness, 
Peace, constant amity, and calm forgiveness, 
The weather of a Christian and a friend. 

1. Friend. Give me a valiant Turk, though not worth ten-pence. 

Cap. Yet, Sir, the world will judge the injury mine, 
Insufferably mine, mine beyond injury. 
Thousands have made a less wrong reach to hell. 
Aye and rejoic'd in his most endless vengeance 
(A miserable triumph though a just one) ; 
But when I call to memory our long friendship, 
Methinks it cannot be too great a wrong 
That then I should not pardon. Why should Man 
For a poor hasty syllable or two . 
(And vented only in forgetful fury) 
Chain all the hopes and riches of his soul 
To the revenge of that ? die lost for ever ? 
For he that makes his last peace with his Maker 
In anger, anger is his peace eternally : 
He must expect the same return again. 
Whose venture is deceitful. Must lie not, Sir ? 

Col. I see what 1 nnist do, fairly put up again. 
For here '11 be nothing done, I perceive that. 

Cap. What shall be done in such a worthless business 
But to be sorry and to be forgiven I 
You, Sir, to bring repentance; and I pardon. 



A y.Mli QUARREL. 127 



Col. I bring repentance, Sir ? 

Cap. Ii"'t bo too much 
To say, repentance; call it what you please, Sir; 
Choose your own word, I know you 're sorry for it, 
And that 's as good. 

Col. I sorry ? by fame's honor, I aQ;i wrong'd : 
Do you seek for peace and draw the quarrel larger ? 

Cap. Then 'tis I 'm sorry that I thought you so. 

1. Friend. A Captain ! I could gnaw his title ofi'. 

Cap. Nor is it any misbecoming virtue, Sir, 
In the best manliness, to repent a wrong : 
Which made me bold with you. 

1. Friend. 1 could cuiF his head off". 

2. Friend. Nay, pish. 

Col. So once again take thou thy peaceful rest then ; 

[ To his sword. 
But as T put thee up, I must proclaim 
This Captain here, both to his friends and mine, 
That only came to see fair valor righted, 
A base submissive Coward : so I leave him. 

Cap. Oh, heaven has pitied my excessive patience, 
And sent me a Cause : now I have a Cause : 
A Coward I was never. Come you back. Sir. 

Col. How! 

Cap. You left a Coward here. 

Col. Yes, Sir, with you. 

Cap. 'Tis such base metal, Sir, 't will not be taken, 
It must home again with you. 

2. Friend. Should this be true now 

1. Friend. Impossible! Coward do more than Bastard ! 

Col. I prithee mock me not, take heed you do not, 
For if I draw once more I shall grow terrible. 
And rage will force me do what will grieve honor. 

Cap. Ha, ha, ha. 

Col. He smiles, dare it be he ? what think ye, Gentlemen ? 
Your judgments ; shall I not be cozen'd in him ? 
This cannot he the man ; why he was bookish, 
Made an invective lately against fighting. 



128 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

A thing in truth that mov'd a little with me ; 

Put up a fouler contumely far 

Than thousand Cowards came to, and grew thankful. 

Cap. Blessed remembrance in time of need ; 
I 'd lost my honor else. 

2. Friend. Do you notg his joy ? 

Cap. I never felt a more severe necessity : 
Then came thy excellent pity. Not yet ready ! 
Have you such confidence in my just manhood 
That you dare so long trust me, and yet tempt me 
Beyond the toleration of man's virtue ? 
Why, would you be more cruel than your injury ? 
Do you first take pride to wrong me, and then think me 
Not worth your fury ? do not use me so : 
I shall deceive you then : Sir, either draw, 
And that not slightingly, but with the care 
Of your best preservation, with that watchfulness 
As you 'd defend yourself from circular fire. 
Your sin's rage, or her Lord (this will require it) 
Or you '11 be too soon lost : for I 've an anger, 
Has gatlier'd mighty strength against you : mighty, 
Yet you shall find it honest to the last, 
Noble and fair. 

Col. I '11 venture it once again. 
And if 't be but as true as it is wondrous 
I shall have that I come for. Your leave, Gentlemen. 

[Tliey fight. 

1. Friend. If he should do 't indeed, and deceive us all 



Stay, by this hand he offers ; fights i'faith ; 
Fights : by this light, he fights, Sir. 
2. Friend. So methinks. Sir. 

1. Friend. An absolute Punto, ha ? 

2. Friend. 'Twas a Passado, Sir. 

1. Friend. Why, let it pass, and 'twas : I 'm sure 'twas some- 

what. 
What 's that now ? 

2. Friend. That 's a Punto. 



A FAIR QUARREL. 129 



1, Friend. O go to then, 
I knew 'twas not far off: What a world's this ! 
Is Coward a more stirring meat than Bastard ? 

ho ! I honor thee : 

'Tis right and fair, and he that breathes against it, 
He breathes against the justice of a man ; 
And man to cut him off, 'tis no injustice. 
Thanks, thanks, for this most unexpected nobleness. 

[The Colonel is disarmed. 

Cap. Truth never fails her servant, Sir, nor leaves him 
With the day's shame upon him. 

1. Friend. Thou 'st redeemed 
Thy worth to the same height, 'twas first esteemed. 

[The insipid levelling morality to which the modern stage is tied down 
would not admit of such admirable passions as these scenes are filled with. 
A puritanical obtuseness of sentiment, a stupid infantile goodness, is creep- 
ing among us, instead of the vigorous passions, and virtues clad in flesh and 
blood, with which the old dramatists present us. These noble and liberal 
casuists could discern in the differences, the quarrels, the animosities of 
man, a beauty and truth of moral feeling, no less than in the iterately incul- 
cated duties of forgiveness and atonement. With us all is hypocritical 
meekness. A reconciliation scene (let the occasion be never so absurd or 
unnatural) is always sure of applause. Our audiences come to the theatre 
to be complimented on their goodness. They compare notes with the ami- 
able characters in the play, and find a wonderful similarity of disposition 
between them. We have a common stock of dramatic morality out of 
which a wiiter may be supplied without the trouble of copying it from ori- 
ginals within his own breast. To know the boundaries of honor, to be judi- 
ciously valiant, to have a temperance which shall beget a smoothness in the 
angry swellings of youth, to esteem life as nothing when the sacred reputa- 
tion of a parent is to be defended, yet to shake and tremble under a pious 
cowardice when that ark of an honest confidence is found to be frail and 
tottering, to feel the true blows of a real disgrace blunting that sword which 
the imaginary strokes of a supposed false imputation had put so keen an 
edge upon but lately : to do, or to imagine this done in a feigned story, asks 
something more of a moral sense, somewhat a greater delicacy of percep- 
tion in questions of right and wrong, than goes to the writing of two or 
three hackneyed sentences about the laws of honor as opposed to the laws 
of the land, or a common-place against duelling. Yet such things would 
stand a writer now a days in far better stead than Captain Ager and his con- 
scientious honor ; and he would be considered as a far better teacher of 
morality than old Rowley or Middleton if they were living.] 
PART I. 10 



130 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

ALL'S LOST BY LUST. A TRAGEDY. F.Y WILLL\I\I ROWLEY. 

Roderino, King of Spaitt, takes the opportunity to riolntf tfw Daughter 
of JuJianvn, while that old General is fghfing his battles against the 
Moors. Jacinta seeks her Father in the Campy at the moment of 
lie tort/. 

JunANUS. Servant. 

Sfr. Sir, here's a Woman (tbreed by some tide of sorrow) 
Witli teal's intreats your pity, and to see you. 

Jul. It' any Soldier has done violence to her, 
Beyond our military discipline, 
Poath shall divide him from us : fetch her in. 
I have myself a Daughter, on wlu^e face 
But thinkino-, 1 nmst needs be pitil'ul : 
And when 1 ha' told my conquest to my King, 
Afy poor girl then shall know, how for her sake 
I dill one pious act : . 

Srrvtvit returns trith .Tacinta veiled. 

Is this the creature ? 

Serv. Yes. my Lord, and a sad one. 

Jul. Leave us. A sad one ! 
The down-cast Uxik calls up compassion in nu\ 
A corse going to the grave Kx^ks not more deadly. 
\Vhy knecl'st thou ? art thou wi"ong'd by any Soldier ? 
Rise : for this honor is not due to me. 
Hast not a tongue to read thy sorrows out ? 
This book 1 understand not. 

Jacin. O my dear father ! 

Jul. Thy father, who has wrong'd him ? 

Jacin. A great Commander. 

Jul. Under me ? 

Jacin. Above you. 

Jul. Alxive me ! who's alx^ve a general ? 
None but the general of all Spain's arnues ; 
And that's the king, king Roderick : he's all gooilnes3, 
He cannot wivng thy ththoi'. 

Jacin. What was Tarquin ? 



ALL'S LOST BY LUST. 131 



Jul. A king, and yet a ravisher. 

Jacin. Sucli a sin 
Was in those clays a monster ; now 'tis common. 

Jul. Prithoo bo plain. 

Jacin. Have not you, Sir, a daughter ? 

Jul. If I have not, I am the w retched 'st man 
That this day lives ; for all the wealth I have 
Lives in that child. 

Jacin. O for your daunjliter's sake then hear my woes. 

Jul. Rise then, and speak 'em. 

Jacin. No, let me kneel still : 
Such a resemblance of a daughter's duty 
Will make you mindful of a lather's love: 
For such my injuries must exact from you, 
As you would for your own. 

Jul. And so they do ; 
For whilst I see thee kneeling, 1 think of my Jacinta. 

Jacin. Say your .Tacinta then, chaste as the rose 
Coming on sweetly in the springing bud, 
And ne'er felt heat, to spread the summer sweet ; 
But, to increase and multiply it more. 
Did to itself keep in its own perfume ; 
Say that some rapine hand had pluck'd the bloom,* 
Jacinta, like that flower, and ravish'd her. 
Defiling her white lawn of chastity 
With ugly blacks of lust : what would you do ? 

Jul. O 'tis too hard a question to resolve. 
Without a solemn council held within 
Of man's best understanding faculties: 
There must be love, and fatherhood, and grief. 
And rage, and many passions : and they must all 
Beget a thing call'd vengeance : but they must sit upon 't 

Jacin. Say this were done by him that carried 
The fairest seeming face of friendship to yourself. 

/;//. We should fall out. 

Jacin. Would you in such a case respect degrees ? 

Jul. I know not that. 

• " Cropt this fair Rose," &c. — Otway. 



132 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Jacin. Say he were noble. 

Jul. Impossible : the act's ignoble. The Bee can breed 
No poison, though it suck the juice of hemlock. 

Jacin. Say a king should do it ; were the act less done, 
By the greater power ? does majesty 
Extenuate a crime ? 

Jul. Augment it rather. 

Jacin. Say then that Roderick, your king and master, 
To quit the honors you are bringing home, 
Had ravish'd your Jacinta. 

Jul. Who has sent 
A Fury in this foul-fair shape to vex me ? 
I ha' seen that face methinks yet know it not : 
How darest thou speak this treason 'gainst my king ? 
Durst any man in the world bring me this lie, 
By this, he had been in hell : Roderick a Tarquin ! 

Jacin. Yes, and thy daughter (had she done her part) 
Should be the second Lucrece. View me well : 
I am Jacinta. 

Jul. Ha! 

Jacin. The king my ravisher. 

Jul. The king thy ravisher ! oh, unkingly sound. 
He dares not sure ; yet in thy sullied eyes 
I read a tragic story. 

Antonio, Alonzo, and other Officers, enter. 

Jul. O noble friends, 
Our wars are ended, are they not ? 

All. They are, Sir. 

Jul. But Spain has now begun a civil war. 
And to confound me only. See you my daughter ? 
She sounds the trumpet which draws forth my sword 
To be revenged. 

Alon. On whom ? speak loud your wrongs ; 
Digest your choler into temperance ; 
Give your considerate thoughts the upper hand 
In your hot passions, 'twill assuage the swelling 
Of your big heart : if you have injuries done you^ 



ALL'S LOST BY LUST. 133 

Revenge them, and we second you. 

Jacin. Father, dear father. 

Jul. Daughter, dear daughter. 

Jacin. Wliy do you kneel to me, Sir! 

Jul. To ask thee pardon that I did beget thee. 
I brought thee to a shame, stains all the way 
'Twi.xt earth and Aclieron : not all the clouds 
(The skies' large canopy) could they drown the seas 
Witli a perpetual inundation. 
Can wash it ever out : leave me, I pray. [Falls doion. 

Alon. His fighting passion will be o'er anon, 
And all will be at peace. 

Ant. Best in my judgment 
We wake him with the sight of his won honors. 
Call up the army, and let them present 
His prisoners to him : such a siglit as that 
Will brook no sorrow near it. 

Jul. 'Twas a good doctor that prescribM that physic. 
I'll be your patient. Sir ; show me my soldiers. 
And my new honors won : I will truly weigh tiiom 
With my full griefs, they may perhaps o'ercome. 

Alon. Why now there's hopes of his recovery. 

Jul. Jacinta, welcome, thou art my child still : 
No forced stain of lust can alienate 
Our consanguinity. 

Jacin. Dear fatiier, 
Recollect your noble spirits : conquer grief. 
The manly way : you have brave foes subdued, 
Then let no female passions thus o'erwhelm you. 

Jul. Mistake me not, my child, I am not mad, 
Nor must be idle ; for it were more fit 
(If I could purchase more) I had more wit, 
To help in these designs : I am grown old : 
Yet I have found more strength within this arm. 
Than (witiiout proof) 1 durst ha' boasted on. 
Roderick, thou king of monsters, cuuldst tliou do this, 
And for thy i st confine me from th;^ court? 
There's reason )i tlw slianie, thou shouldst not see me. 



134 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Ha ! they come, Jacinta, they come, hark, hark ; 
Now thou shalt see what cause I have given my king. 

T^mquislied J\foors' address to the Sun. 
Descend tliy sphere, thou burning Deity. 
Haste from our shame, go blushing to tliy bed ; 
Tliy sons* we are, thou everlasting Ball, 
Yet never shamed these our impressive brows 
Till now : we that are stampt with thine own seal, 
Wliicli the whole ocean cannot wash away, 
Shall those cold ague cheeks that Nature moulds 
Within her winter shop, those smooth white skins, 
That with a palsy hand she paints the limbs. 
Make us recoil ? 

Man^s Heart. 
1 w oiild fain know what kind thing a man's heart is. 

were you never 

At Barber Surgeons' Hall to see a dissection '? 
1 will report it to you : 'tis a thing framed 
\^'itli divers corners, and into every corner 
A man may entertain a friend : (there came 
Tlie proverb, A man may love one well, and yet 

Retain a friend in a corner.) 

tush, 'tis not 

The real !u art ; but the unseen faculties. 



Those I'll decipher unto you : (for surely 

Tiie most part are but ciphers.) The heart indeed 

For the most part dolh keep a better guest 

Than himself in him ; that is, the soul. Now the soul 

BciuL;- a tree, there ai"e divers branches spreading out of it, 

As loving-atleetion, suflering-sorrows, and the like. 

Then. Sir, these atlections or sorrows being but branches, 

Are somelinies lopt oft", or of themselves wither ; 

And new shoot in their rooms : as for example ; 

Your friend dies, there appears sorrow, but it quickly 

Withers ; then is that branch gone. Again, you love a friend ; 

* " Children of the Sun." — Zanga in tt e tievenge. 



A NEW WONDER, ETC. 135 



There afrection springs forth ; at last you distaste ; 
Then that branch withers again, and another buds 
In his room. 



A NEW WONDER: A WOMAN NEVER VEXT. A COMEDY 
BY WILLIAM ROWLEY. 

The Woman never Vext states her Case to a Divine. 

Widow. Doctor. 

Doc. You sent for me, gentlcuoman ? 

Wid. Sir, I did, and to this end. 
I have some scruples in my conscience ; 
Some doubtful problems which 1 cannot answer, 
Nor reconcile ; I'd have you make them plain. 

Doc. This is my duty ; pray speak your mind. 

Wid. And as I speak, I must remember heaven 
That gave those blessings which I must relate : 
Sir, you now behold a wondrous woman ; 
You only wonder at the epithet ; 
I can approve it good : guess at mine age. 

Doc. At the half-way 'twixt thirty and forty. 

Wid. 'Twas not much amiss ; yet nearest to the last. 
How think you then, is not this a Wonder, 
That a Woman lives full seven-and-thirty years, 
Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow. 
Now widow'd, and mine own ; yet all this while. 
From the extremest verge of my remembrance. 
Even from my weaning hour unto this minute. 
Did never taste what was calamity. 
T know not yet what grief is, yet have sought 
A hundred ways for his acquaintance : with me 
Prosperity hath kept so close a watch, 
Tliat even those things that I have meant a cross, 
Have that way turn'd a blessing. Is it not strange ? 

Doc. Unparallel'd ; this gift is singular. 
And to you alone belonging : yoi: are the moon. 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



For there 's but one, all women else are stars, 
For there are none of like condition. 
Full oft and many have I heard complain 
Of discontents, thwarts, and adversities ; 
But a second to yourself I never knew. 
To groan under the superflux of blessings, 
To have ever been alien unto sorrow. 
No trip of fate ? sure it is wonderful. 

Wid. Aye, Sir, 'tis wonderful, but is it well ? 
For it is now my chief affliction. 
I have heard you say that the Child of Heaven 
Shall SLiiTer many tribulations ; 

Nay, kings and princes share them with their subjects: 
Then I that know not any chastisement. 
How may I know my part of childhood ? 

Doc. 'Tis a good doubt ; but make it not extreme. 
'Tis some affliction that you are afflicted 
For want of affliction : cherish that : 
Yet wrest it not to misconstruction ; 
For all your blessings are free gifts from heaven, 
Health, wealth, and peace ; nor can they turn into 
Curses, but by abuse. Pray, let me question you : 
You lost a husband, was it no grief to you ? 

Wid. It was, but very small : no sooner I 
Had given it entertainment as a sorrow, 
But straight it turn'd unto my treble joy : 
A comfortable revelation prompts me then, 
That husband (whom in life I held so dear) 
Had chang'd a frailty to unchanging joys : 
Methought I saw him stellified in heaven, 
And singing hallelujahs 'mongst a quire 
Of white sainted souls : then again it spake. 
And said, it was a sin for me to grieve 
At his best good, that I esteemed best : 
And thus this slender shadow of a grief 
Vanish'd again. 

Doc. All this was happy, nor 
Can you wrest it from a heavenly blessing. Do not 



A NEW WONDER, ETC. 137 



Appoint the rod : leave still the stroke unto 
The magistrate : the time is not past, but 
You may feel enough. — 

Wid. One taste more I had, although but little, 
Yet I would aggravate to make the most on 't : 
'Twas thus : tlie other day it was niy hap. 
In crossing of the Thames, 
To drop that wedlock ring from off my finger, 
That once conjoined me and my dear husband : 
It sunk ; I prized it dear ; the dearer, 'cause it kept 
Still in mine eye the memory of my loss : 
Yet I grieved the loss ; and did joy withal, 
That I had found a grief. And this is all 
The sorrow I can boast of. 

Doc. This is but small. 

Wid. Nay, sure, I am of this opinion. 
That had I suffer'd a draught to be made for it. 
The bottom would have sent it up again ; 
I am so wondrously fortunate. 

Foster, a wealthy Merchant, has a profligate Brother, Stephen, whom 
Robert, So?i to Foster, relieves out of Prison with some of his Father's 
money intrusted to him. For this, his Father turns him out of doors and 
disinherits hira. Meantime, by a reverse of fortune, Stephen becomes 
rich ; and Foster by losses in trade is thrown into the same Prison 
{Ltidgate) frotn which his brother had been relieved. Stephen adopts 
his JVephew, on the condition that he shall not assist or go near his 
Father: but filial piety prevails, above the consideration either of his 
Uncle's displeasure, or of his Father's late unkindness ; and he visits 
his father in Prison. 

Foster. Robert. 

Fos. O torment to my soul, what mak'st thou here ? 
Cannot the picture of my misery 
Be drawn, and hung out to the eyes of men, 
But thou must come to scorn and laugh at it ? 

Roh. Dear Sir, I come to thrust my back under your load, 
To make the burthen lighter. 

Fos. Hence from my sight, dissembling villain, go : 
Thine uncle sends defiance to my wo, 



138 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POKTS. 



And thou must bring it : hence, thou Basilisk, 
That killst mo with thino eyes. Nay, never kneel ; 
These scornful mocks more than my woes I feel. 

Rob. Alas, I mock ye not, but come in love 
And natural duty, Sir, to bog your blessing; 
And ii)r mine uncle 

Fos. Him and thee I curse. 
I'll starve vrc I oat broad from his purse. 
Or from thy liuud : mit, villain; toll that cur, 
Thy barking uiiclo, that 1 lie not hero 
Upon my bod of riot, as ho did, 
t^over'd with all tlu^ villainies which man 
Had over woven ; toll him I lie not so; 
It was the hand of heaven struck me thus low. 
And 1 do thank it. Get thee gone, I say, 
Or [ sliall eurst> thee, strike tla>o ; prithee away : 
Or if thou'lt laugh thy fill at my poor state, 
Then stay, and listen to the prison grate, 
And hear thy father, an old wretched man. 
That yostorday had thousands, bog and cry 
To get a penny : 0\\, my n)isory. 

Hob. Dear Sir, for pity hear mo. 

Fos. Upon my curse 1 charge, no nearer come; 
I'll be no father to so vile a son. 

Rob. O my abortive liito. 
Why for my good am 1 thus paid with hate? 
From this sad place of liudgato here I freed 
An uneU>, and 1 lost a father for it ; 
Now is my iather hero, whom if 1 succor, 
I then must lose my uncle's love and favor. 
My father once being rich, and nnele poor, 
1 him relieving was thrust forth of doors, 
Batllod, roviltHi, and disinherited. 
Now mini> own iatluM- here must beg for bivad, 
Mine uncle being rioli ; and yet, if I 
Feed him, myself nuist beg. Oh misery ; 
How bitter is thy taste; yet 1 will driidi 
Thy strongest poison ; fret what mischief can, 



A NEW WONDER, ETC. 139 



I'll feed my father; though likii tlio IVdican. 
1 peck niiiio own bivast (or him. 

His Father appears above at the Gratt\ a Box hanging down. 

Fos. Bread, bread, one penny to i>uy a loaf of bread, for the 

tender mercy. 
Rob. O me my shame ! I know that voice full well ; 
['11 help thy waiits although thou curse me still. 

lie staiii/s where he is vnscin hi/ his Father. 

Fos. Bread, bread, some christian man send back 
Your charity to a number of poor prisoners. 
One penny for the teniler mercy — 

[Robert piits in Money. 
The hand of heaven reward you, gentle Sir, 
Never may you want, never feel misery ; 
Let blessings in unnumber'd measure grow, 
And fall upon your head, where'er you go. 

Kob. O happy comfort : curse^s to the ground 
J"'irst struck me : now witii blessings am I crown'd.* 

Fos. Bread, bread, for the tender mercy, one penny for a loaf 
of bread. 

Boh. I'll buy more blessings : take thou all my store ; 
I'll k(>ep no coin and see my Father poor. 

Fos. Good augt^ls guard you. Sir, my prayers shall be 
That heaven may bless you for this charity. 

Rob. If he knew me, sure he would not say so : 
Yet I have comfort, if by any means 
I get a blessing from my father's hands. 
Mow cheap are good prayers ! a poor penny buys 
Tiiat, by which man up in a minute flies 
And mounts to heaven. 

Enter Stephen. 

Oh me, mine uncle sees me. 

Step. Now, Sir, what makes you here 
So near the prison ? 

• A blessing stolen at least as fairly aa Jacob's was. 



140 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Rob. I was going, Sir, 
To buy meat for a poor bird I have, 
That sits so sadly in the cage of late, 
I think he'll die for sorrow. 

Step. So, Sir : 
Your pity will not quit your pains, I fear me. 
I shall find that bird (I think) to be that churlish wretch 
Your father, that now has taken 
Shelter here in Ludgate. Go to. Sir ; urge me not, 
You'd best ; I have giv'n you warning : fawn not on him, 
Nor come not near him if you'll have my love. 

Rob. 'Las, Sir ; that lamb 
Were most unnatural that should hate tlie dam. 

Step. Lamb me no lambs. Sir. 

Rob. Good uncle, 'las, you know, when you lay here, 
I succor'd you : so let me now help him. 

Step. Yes, as he did me ; 
To laugh and triumph at my misery. 
You freed me with his gold, but 'gainst his will : 
For him I might have rotted, and lain still. 
So shall he now. 

Rob. Alack the day ! 

Step. If him thou pity, 'tis thine own decay. 

Fos. Bread, bread, some charitable man remember the poor 
Prisoners, bread for the tender mercy, one penny. 

Rob. O listen, uncle, that's my poor father's voice. 

Step. There let him howl. Get you gone, and 'come not near 
him. 

Rob. Oh my soul. 
What tortures dost thou feel ! earth ne'er shall find 
A son so true, yet forc'd to be unkind. 

Robert disobeys his Uncle's Injunctions, and again visits his Father 

Foster. Wife. Robert. 
Fos. Ha ! what art thou ? Call for the keeper there, 
And thrust him out of doors, or lock me up. 
Wife. O 'tis your son. ^ 

Fos. I know him not. 



A NEW WONDER, ETC. 141 

I am no king, unless of scorn and wo, 

Why knccl'st thou then, why dost thou mock me so? 

Koh. O my dear father, hither am I come. 
Not like a threatening storm to increase your wrack, 
For I would take all sorrows from your back, 
To lay tliem all on my own. 

Fos. Rise, mischief, rise ; away, and get thee gone. 

Rob. O if I be thus hateful to your eye, 
I will depart, and wish I soon may die ; 
Yet let your blessing, Sir, but fall on me. 

Fos. My heart still hates thee. 

Wife. Sweet husband. 

Fos. Get you both gone ; 
That misery takes some rest that dwells alone. 
Away, thou villain. 

Roh. Heaven can tell ; 
Akc but your finger, I to make it well 
Would cut my hand off. 

Fos. Hang thee, hang thee. 

Wife. Husband. 

Fos. Destruction meet thee. Turn the key there, ho. 

Roh. Good Sir, I'm gone, I will not stay to grieve you. 
Oh, knew you, for your woes what pains 1 feel. 
You would not scorn me so. See, Sir, to cool, 
Your heat of burning sorrow, I have got 
Two hundred pounds, and glad it is my lot 
To lay it down with reverence at your feet ; 
No comfort in the world to me is sweet. 
Whilst thus you live in moan. 

Fos. Stay. 

Roh. Good trutli, Sir, I'll have none of it back, 
Could but one penny of it save my life. 

Wife. Yet stay, and hear him : Oh unnatural strife 
In a hard father's bosom. 

Fos. I see mine error now : Oh, can there grow 
A rose upon a bramble ? did there e'er flow 
Poison and health together in one tide ? 
I'm born a man : reason may step aside, 



142 ENGLISH DKAMAl'lC I'OETS. 



And lead a father's love out of the way : 
Forgive mo, my good boy, I went astray ; 
Look, on my knees I l)t\i!; it : \m. for joy, 
Thou hring'sl this <f()l(len rubbish; which I spurn: 
Hut j:;hul in tliis, tlio lu>avens mine eye-balls turn, 
And lix them rijfht to look upon tiiat faee, 
Where love remains w iib pity, duty, grace. 
Oh my dtuir wrongt d boy. 

liol). Cilhulnt^ss o'erwhelms 
My heart with joy : I eaunot speak. 

Wi/'e. (^ross(>s of this tool ish world 
Did nev(>r grieve luy lu>art w ith tornuMits more 
'J'han it is now grown liglit 
With joy and eomfiu't of this hap|)y sight. 

[Till' (>lil pliiv-wi'ili'rs arc distinii'uishod 'ly an lioiu-st ln>liliu-ss of oxluhi- 
lion, tlu'v sliovv ovorylliiii!;' witliont Ix-iiig asli.imoil. 11" u rcvorso in fortune be 
tlio thing to 1)0 porsonilicd, tlu'V t'iiirlv hrinj;' us to llio prison-pito and tho uhns- 
baskct. \ poor man on our stai;o is always a j;i>ntli'nian, ho may bo known 
by a peculiar noalnoss of apparol, anil by woaring IdaoU. Dur dolioacy, in 
fart, forbids tiio dramatiziuf;' i>f Distress at all. It is novor shown in its 
I'ssonlial properties;* it appears hut as tho adjunct to some virtue, as some- 



* flu/.man do Alfaniche in that icood old book, "' The Spanish Rogue," has 
sununoil up a tow of the properties of povi'rty — " that poverty, which is not 
the daughter i>f the spirit, is but the mother of shame and reproacli ; it is a 
disreputation that drowns all the other good parts that are in man ; it is a 
disposition to all kind of evil ; if is man's most foo ; it is a leprosy full of 
angviish ; it is away that leads unto hell ; it is a soa wherein our patience is 
overwliolmoii, our honor is consumed, our lives are ended, and our souls arc 
\ittorly lost and east away for ever. The poor man is a kind of money that 
IS not current ; tho subject of every idle huswife's ehut ; the otlscuin of tlie 
people ; the ilust of the street, tirst tr.implod under foot anil then thrown on 
tlio dunghill ; in eonelusion, the jjoor nran is the rich man's ass. lie dinetb 
with tho last, fareth of tho worst, and payoth dearest : his sixpence will not 
go so fur as a rich inan's Ihrooponce ; his opinion is ignorance ; his discre- 
tion, foolishness ; his suH'rago, scorn ; his stock upon the common, abused 
by niany and abhorred of all. If lie come in company, he is not heard ; 
if any chance to meet him, they seek to shun him ; it ho advise, tliough 
never so wisely, they grudge and murmur at bin* ; if he work miracles, 
tlioy say be is a witch : if virtuous, that ho goolh about fo deceive ; his 
\eiual sin is a blasphemy lis thoiu;ht is made treason ; his cause, be it 



W'OMKN 15EWARE WOMEN. 



thinf? which is to be relieved, from tlic approbation of which rulief the 
spectators are to derive a certain soothing of self-rcforred satisfaction. We 
turn away from the real fossencos of things to hunt after tiicir rehitivc slia- 
dovvs, moral duties: whereas if tlie trutii of things were fairly represented, 
the relative duties might be safely trusted to themselves, and moral philoso- 
phy lose the name of a science.] 



WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN; A TRAGEDY. 
BY THOMAS MIDDLETON. 

Livia, the jyuke's creatxrc, cajoles a poor JVidow with the appearance of 
Hosjntalitif and tirif^hlior/i/ Attentions, that she may ^et her Daughter- 
in-Law {who is left in the Mother'a care in the Son's absence) into her 
trains, to serve the Duke's pleasure. 

LiviA. Widow. A Gentleman, Livia's Guest. 

Liv. Widow, come, come, I have a great quarrel to you, 

Faith I must chide you that you must be sent for ; 

You make yourself so .straii<^e, never come at us. 

And yet so near a neighbor, and so unkind ; 

Troth, you 're to blame ; you cannot be more welcome 

To any house in Florence, that I '11 tell you. 

Wid. My thanks must needs acknowledge so nmch, madam, 
Liv. Mow can you be so strange then ? 1 sit liero 

Soiaetimcs whole days together witiiout company, 

When business draws this gentleman Irom home, 

And should be happy in society 

Which I .so well atli^ct as that of yours. 

[ know you 're alone too ; why should not we 

Like two kind neigiibors tlien supply th(! wants 

ni'ver so just, it is not reganli-d ; and, to Iiave his wrongs righted, he must 
appeal to that other life. All men crush him ; no man favoreth him ; there 
is no man that will relieve his wants ; no man that will comfort him in his 
miseries; nor no man that will hear liim cami)any, when he is all alone, 
and oppressed with grief. None help him ; all iiinder him ; none give him, 
all take from him ; he is debtor to none, and yet must make payment to all. 
O the unfortunate and poor condition of him that is poor, to wiiom even the 
very hours are sold, which the clock siriketh, and pays ciistom for the aun- 
ahine in August." 



144 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Of one another, having tongue-discourse, 
Experience in the world, and such kind helps, 
To laugh down time and meet age nierrily ? 

Wid. Age, madam ! you speak mirth : 'tis at my door, 
But a long journey from your Ladyship yet. 

Liv. My faith, I 'm nine and thirty, every stroke, wench ; 
And 'tis a general observation 

'Mongst knights ; wives, or widows, we account ourselves 
Then old, when young men's eyes leave looking at us. 
Come, now I have thy company, I '11 not part with it 
Till after supper. 

Wid. Yes, I must crave pardon, madam. 

Liv. I swear you shall stay supper ; \\ e have no strangers, 
woman, 
None but my sojourners and I, this gentleman 
And the young heir his ward ; you know your company. 

Wid. Some other time I will make bold with you, madam. 

Lii\ Faith she shall not go. 
Do you think I'll be forsworn ? 

Wid. 'Tis a great while 
Till supper time ; I'll take my leave then now, madam, 
And come again in the evening, since your ladyship 
Will have it so. 

Liv. In the~^vening ! by my troth, wench, 
I'll keep you while I have you ; you've great business sure, 
To sit alone at home ; I wonder strangely 
What pleasure you take in 't. Were 't to me now, 
I should be ever at one neighbor's house 
Or other all day long ; having no charge. 
Or none to chide you, if you go, or stay. 
Who mav live merrier, aye, or more at heart's ease ? 
Como, we'll to chess or draughts, there are a hundred tricks 
To drive out time till supper, never fear 't, wench. 

[^'1 Chess-board is set. 

Wid. I'll but make one step home, and return straight, madam. 

Liv. Come, I'll not trust you, you make more excuses 
To your kind friends than ever I knew any. 
What business can you have, if you be sure 



WOMEN IJEWAllE WOMEN. 14& 



You've lock'd the doors ? and, that being all you have, 

I know you're careful on 't : one aftornoon 

So much to spend here ! say I should entreat you now 

To lie a night or two, or a week, with me, 

Or leave your own liouse for a month togetlier ; 

It were a kindness that long neighboriiood 

And friendship might well hope to prevail in : 

Would you deny such a request ? i'faith 

Speak truly and freely. 

Wid. I were tiien uncivil, madam. 

Liv. Go to then, set your men : we'll have whole nights 
Of mirth together, ere we be much older, wench. 

Wid. As good now tell her then, for she will know it ; 
I've always found her a most friendly lady. [Aside, 

Liv. Why, widow, where's your mind ? 

Wid. Troth, even at home, madam. 
To tell you truth, I left a gentlewoman 
Even sitting all alone, which is uncomfortable, 
Especially to young bloods. 

Liv. Another excuse. 

Wid. No, as I hope for health, madam, that's a truth ; 
Please you to .send and see. 

Liv. What gentlewoman ? pish. 

Wid. Wife to my son indeed. 

Liv. Now I beshrew you. 
Could you be so unkind to her and me, 
To come and not bring her ? faith, 'tis not friendly. 

Wid. I fear'd to be too bold. 

Liv. Too bold ! Oh what's become 
Of the true hearty love was wont to be 
'Mongst neighbors in old time l 

Wid. And she's a stranger, madam. 

Liv. The more should be her wclconio : when is courtesy 
In better practice, than when 'tis employ'd 
In entertaining strangers. I could chide ye in faith. 
Leave her behind, poor gentlewoman, alone too ! 
Make some amends, and send for her betimes, go. 

Wid. Please you command one of your servants, madanri. 
PART I. J I 



148 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Liv. Within tliere. — 
Attend the gentlewoman. * 

Brancha resists the Duke's attempt. 

Bran. Oh treachery to honor ! 

Duke. Prithee tremble not. 
I feel thy breast shake like a turtle panting 
Under a loving hand that makes much on't. 
Why art so fearful ? 

Bran. Oh my extremity ! 
My Lord, what seek you i 

Duke. Love. 

Bran. 'Tis gone already : 
I have a husband. 

Duke. That's a single eonifort ; 
Take a friend to him. 

Bran. That's a double mischief; 
Or else there's no religion. 

Duke. Do not tremble 
At fears of thy own making. 

Bran. Nor, great lord, 
Make me not bold with death and deeds of ruin, 
Because they fear not you ; me they nuist fright ; 
Then am I best in health : should thunder speak 
And none regard it, it bad lost tlio name. 
And were as good I 3 still. I'm not like those 
That take their sou idest sleeps in greatest tempests ; 
Then wake I most, the weather fearfuUest, 
And call for strength to virtue. 

Winding Sheet. 

to have a being, and to live 'mongst men. 

Is a fearful living and a poor one ; let a man truly think on 't. 
To have the toil and griefs of fourscore years 

* This is one of tlioso scenes which has the air of being an immediate 
transcript from life. Livia the " good neighbor " is as real a creature as one 
of Chaucer's characters She is such another jolly Housewife as the Wife 
of Bath 



WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 147 

Put up in a white sheet, tied with two knots : 
Methinks it sliould strike earthquakes in adulterers, 
When even the very sheets they commit sin in 
May prove for aught they know all their last garments. 

Great Men's looks. 

Did not the duke look up ? methought he saw us. — 

That's every one's conceit that sees a duke, 

If he look steadfastly, he looks straight at them: 
When he perliaps, good careful gentleman, 
Never minds any, but the look he casts 
Is at his own intentions, and his object 
Only the public good. 

Weeping in Love. 

Why should those tears be fctch'd forth ! cannot love 
Be even as well expressed in a good look. 
But it must see her face still in a fountain ? 
It shows like a country maid dressing her head 
By a dish of water : come, 'tis an old custom 
To weep for love. 

Lover's Chidings. 

— prithee forgive me, 
I did but chide in jest : the best loves use it 
Sometimes; it sets an edge upon affection. 
When we invite our best friends to a feast, 
'Tis not all sweetmeats that \>e set before 'em ; 
There's something sliarp and salt, both to whet appetite, 
And make 'em taste their wine well : so methinks, 
After a friendly sharp and savory chiding, 
A kiss tastes wondrous well, and full o' the grape. 

Wedlock. 

O thou the ripe time of man's misery, wedlock ; 
When all his thoughts like over-laden trees 
Crack with the fruits they bear, in cares, in jealousies. 
O that's a fruit that ripens hastily. 



148 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

After 'tis knit to marriage ; it begins, 
As soon as the sun shines upon the bride, 
A little to show color. 

Marrying the Adulteress, the Husband dead. 

Is not sin sure enough to wretched man, 
But he must bind luniself in chains to 't ? worse! 
Must marriage, that immaculate robe of honor, 
That renders Virtue glorious, fair, and fruitful, 
To her great master, be now made the garment 
Of leprosy and foulness ? is this penitence, 
To sanctify hot lust? what is it otherways 
Than worsliip done to devils ? is this tlie best 
Amends that sin can make after her riots ! 
As if a drunkard, to appease heaven's wrath, 
Should offer up his surfeit for a sacrifice : 
If that bo comely, then lust's ollcrings are 
On wedlock's sacred altar. 



MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIDES WOMEN: A COMEDY. 
BY THOMAS MIDDLETON. 

Death. 
— when the heart's above, the body walks here 



But like an idle scrvingman below, 

Gaping and waiting for his master's coming. 

He tiiat lives fourscore years, is but like one 

That stays here for a friend : when deatii comes, then 

Away he goes, and is ne'er seen again. 

Loving a Woman. 

of all tlie frenzies 



That follow flesh and blood, 
The most ridiculous is to fawn on women ; 
There's no excuse for that : 'tis such a madness. 
There is no cure set down for 't ; no physician 
Ever spent hour about it, for they gucss'd 



MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIDES WOMEN. 149 

'Twas all in vain, when they first lov'd, themselves, 

And novor since durst practise : cry hen mihi ; 

That's all tlic liolp they liave for 't. I'd rather meet 

A witch far north than a line fool in love ; 

The sight would less afflict nie. But for modesty, 

I should fall foul in words upon fond man. 

That can forget his excellence and honor, 

His serious meditations, being the end 

Of his creation, to learn well to die ; 

And live a prisoner to a woman's eye. 

Widow's Vow. 

Lord Cardinal. Increase of health and a redoubled courage 
To chastity's great soldier : what, so sad, Madam ? 
The memory of her seven years deceas'd Lord 
Springs yet into her eyes, as fresh and full 
As at the seventh hour after his departure. 
What a perpetual fountain is her virtue ! 
Too much to afflict yourself with ancient sorrow 
Is not so strictly for your strength required : 
Your vow is charge enough, believe me 'tis. Madam ; 
You need no wcigliticr task. 

Duch. Religious !Sir, 
You heard the last words of my dying Lord. 

Lord Card. Which I shall ne'er forget. 

Duch. May I entreat 
Your goodness but to speak 'em over to me. 
As near as memory can befriend your utterance : 
That I may think awhile I stand in presence 
Of my departing Husband. 

Lord Card. What's your meaning 
In this, most virtuous Madam ? 

Duch. 'Tis a courtesy 
I stand in need of. Sir, at this time especially ; 
Urge it no farther yet : as it proves to me, 
You shall hear from me ; only I desire it 
EfTectually from you, Sir, that's my request. 

Lord Card. 1 wonder; yet I'll spare to question farther; 



150 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



You shall have your desire. 

Duch. I thank you, Sir : 
A blessing come along with it. 

Lord Card, [repeats] " You see, my Lords, what all earth's 
glory is, 
" Rightly defined in me, uncertain bi*eath : 
" A dream of threescore yeai's to the long sleeper, 
•' To most not half the time. Beware ambition ; 
" Heaven is not reach'd with pride, but with submission. 
" And you Lord Cardinal labor to perfect 
" Good purposes begun, be what you seem, 
" Stedfast and uncorrupt, your actions noble, 
" Your goodness simple, without gain or art ; 
** And not in vesture holier than in heart. 
" But 'tis a pain more than the pangs of death 
" To think that we must part, fellows of life. — 
" Thou richness of my joys, kind and dear Princess, 
" Death had no sting, but for our separation ; 
" 'Twould come more calm than an evening's peace, 
" That brings on rest to labors : Thou art so precious, 
" I should depart in everlasting envy 
" Unto the man, that ever should enjoy thee. 
" Oh a new torment strikes his face into me, 
" When I but think on 't, I am rack'd and torn 
" (Pity me) in thy virtues." 

Duch. " My lov'd Lord, 
" Let your confinn'd opinion of my life, 
" My love, my faithful love, seal an assurance 
" Of quiet to your spirit, that no forgetfulness 
" Can cast a sleep so deadly on my senses, 
" To draw my affections to a second liking." 

Lord Card. " It has ever been the promise, and the spring 
" Of my great love to thee. For, once to marry 
" Is honorable in woman, and her ignorance 
" Stands lor a virtue, coming new and fresh ; 
" But second marriage shows desires in flesh ; 
" Thence lust, and heat, and common custom grows : 
" But she's part virgin, who but one man knows. 



NO WIT HELP LIKE A WOMAN'S. 151 



" I here expect a work of thy great faith : 
" At my last parting I can crave no more ; 
" And vvitli thy vow, I rest myself for ever ; 
" My soul and it shall fly to heaven together : 
" Seal to my spirit that quiet satisfaction, 
"And I go hence in peace." 

Duck. " Then here I vow, never " 

Lord Card. Why, Madam 

Duck. I can go no further. 

Lord Card. What, have you forgot your vow ? 

Duch. I have, too certainly. 

Lord Card. Your vow ? that cannot be ; it follows now, 
Just where I left. 

Duch. My frailty gets before it ; 
Nothing prevails but ill. 

Lord Card. What ail you, Madam ? 

Duch. Sir, I'm in love. 



• NO WIT 
HELP 
A COMEDY. BY THOMAS MIDDLETON. 



LIKE A WOMAN'S. 



Virtuous Poverty. 
'Life, had he not his answer ? what strange impudence 
Governs in man, when lust is lord of him ! 
Thinks he me mad ? 'cause I have no monies on earth. 
That I'll go forfeit my estate in heaven. 
And live eternal beggar ? he shall pardon me ; 
That's my soul's jointure ; I'll starve ere I sell that. 

• Comfort. 

husband. 

Wake, wake, and let not patience keep thee poor, 
Rouse up thy spirit from this falling slumber : 
Make thy distress .seem but a weeping dream, 
And this the opening morning of thy comforts. 



159 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Wipe the salt dew from off tliy careful eyes, 
And drink a draught of gladness next thy heart 
To expel the infection of all poisonous sorrows. 

Good and III Fortune. 
O my blessing ! 
I feel a hand of mercy lift me up 
Out of a world of m aters, and now sets me 
Upon a mountain, where the sun plays most, 
To cheer my heart even as it dries my limbs. 
What deeps I see beneath me ! in whose falls 
Many a nimble mortal toils, 

And scarce can feed himself: the streams of fortune, 
'Gainst which he tugs in vain, still beat him down, 
And will not suffer him (past hand to mouth) 
To lift his arm to his posterities' blessing. 
I see a careful sweat run in a ring 
About his temples, but all will not do : 
For till some happy means relieve his state, 
There he must stick and bide the wrath of fate. 

Parting in Amity. 
Let our Parting 
Be full as charitable as our meeting was ; 
That the pale envious world, glad of the food 
Of others' miseries, civil dissensions, 
And nuptial strifes, may not feed fat with ours. 

Meeting with a Wife supposed Dead. 

my reviving joy ! thy quickening presence 
Makes the sad niglit of threescore and ten years 
Sit like a youthful spring upon my blood. 

1 cannot make thy welcome rich enough 
With all the wealth of words. 

Mothct^s Forgiveness 
Moth. Why do your words start back ? are they afraid 
Of her that ever lov'd them ? 

Philip. I have a suit to you, Madam. 



THE WITCH. i5;| 



Moth. You havo told mo that already ; pray, what is 't ? 
If't bo so great, my present state reCusc! it, 
I shull l»(! abler, llien coiiiinaiid and iisd it. 
Wiiattner 't i)e, let nio have warning to provide for 't. 
PhUip. Provide forgiveness then, for that's the want 
My conscienee feels. O, my wild youth has led me 
Into niniatural wrongs against your fre(Mloni once. 
1 spent the runsoni whieh my father sent. 
To set my pleasures free; while you lay captive. 

Molh. And is this all now ? 
You use me like a stranger : pray, stand up. 

Philii). Jlather fall dat : I shall deserve yet worse. 
Molh. VViiatii'er your faults arc, esteem mo still a friend ; 
Or else you wrong me more in asking jjardon 
Than when you did the wrong you ask'd it for : 
And siiiec! you have prepar'd me to forgive you. 
Pray let me know for what ; the (irst fault's nothing. 

FhUip, Here eomes the wrong iIk'u that drives home the rest. 
I saw a face at Antwerp, that dn^w me 
From conscience and obedience ; in that fray 
I lost my heart, I must needs lose my way. 
There went the ransome, to redeem my mind ; 
Stead of the money, 1 brought over her; 
And to castjnists befon; my fiither's eyes, 
Told him it was my sister (lost so long) 
And tiiat yourself was dead. — You see the wrong. 

Moth. This is but youthful still — 
I forgive thee 

As fre(dy as thou didst it. h'or alas. 
This may be call'd good dealing, to some parts 
That love and youth plays daily among sons. 



THH WI'lTir ; A 'IMlAdf-COMEDY. J5Y THOMAS MIDDLETON. 

I IiiCATi:, and the other Witches, at their Charms. 

ttec. Titty and Tiffin, Sucldn 
And Pidgen. Liard and Robin! 



lf)4 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



White spirits, black spirits, grey spirits, red spirits, 
Devil-toad, devil-ram, devil-cat, and devil-dam, 
AVhy Hoppo and Stadliii, Ilellwain and Puckle ! 

Stad. Here, sweating at the vessel. 

Hec. Boil it well. 

Hop. It gallops now. 

Hec. Are the flames blue enough, 
Or shall 1 use a little seeten* more ? 

Stad. The nips of Fairies upon maids' white hips 
Are not more perfect azure. 

Hec. Tend it carefully. 
Send Stadlin to me with a brazen dish, 
That I may fall to work upon these serpents. 
And squeeze 'em ready for the second hour. 
Why, when ? 

Stad. Here's Stadlin and the dish. 

Hec. Here take this unbaptized brat : 
Boil it well — preserve tlu> fat : 
You know 'tis precious to transfer 
Our 'nointed flesh into the air, 
In moonlight nights, o'er steeple tops. 
Mountains, and pine trees, that like pricks, or stops, 
Seem to our height : high towers, and roofs of princes. 
Like wrinkles in the oartli : whole provinces 
Appear to our sight then even like 
A russet mole upon some lady's cheek. 
When hundred leagues in air, we feast and sing, 
Dance, kiss, and coll, use everything : 
What young man can we wish to pleasure us. 
But we enjoy him in an Incubus .' 
Thou know'st it, Stadlin ? 

Stad. Usually that's done. 

Hec. Away, in. 
Go feed the vessel for the second hour. 

Stad. Where be the magical herbs ? 

Hec. They 're down his throat,f 
His mouth cramni'd full ; liis ears and nostrils stutl. 

• Seething t Tlio aoad Cliild's. 



TiiK vvi rcii. ifiii 



I thrust ill Eloascliiimu, lately 

Aconitum, f'rondos populeaa, and soot. 

You may seo that, he looks so black i' th' mouth. 

riien Siuni, Aeharum, Vulgaro too, 

Doiita|)liill()ii, tlu; hlood of" a (litter-mouse, 

Soluiimn soiiiiiilicum ot oleum. 

Stad. Then there's all, Hecate. 

Hec. Is the heart of wax 
Stuck lull of magi(; needles ? 

Stud. 'Tis ilone, I iecate. 

Hrc. And is tiie farmer's picture, and his wife's, 
Laiil d()\vn to the fire yet '! 

Skid. They are a roastiii;^- both too. 

Hec. Good ; 
Then their marrows are a meltinjr subtilly, 
And three months' sickness sucks up lif(^ in 'en>. 
They denied me oflen flour, barm, and milk, 
Goose-grease and tar, when 1 ne'er hurt their churnings, 
Their brew-locks nor their batches, nor fbrespoko 
Any of their breedings. Now I'll be meet with 'em. 
Seven of their young pigs I have bewitch'd already 
Of the last litter, nine ducklings, thirteen goslings and a hog 
Fell lame last Sunday, after even-song too. 
And mark how their sheep prosper ; or what soup 
Each mileli-kitH> gives to th' pail : I'll send these snakes 
Shall milk \n\\ all before hand : the devv'd skirted dairy wench 
Shall stroke dry dugs for this, and go home cursing : 
I'll mar their sillabubs, and swarthy feastings 
Under cows' bellies, with the parish youths. 

Sebastian consults the Witch /or a Charm to be reocnged on his 
.successful Rival. 

Hec. Urchins, elves, hags, satires, pans, fawns, silence. 
Kit with the candlestick ; tritons, centaurs, dwarfs, imps. 
The spoon, the mare, the man i' th' oak, the lielhvain, the fire- 
drake, the puckle. A. ab. hur. bus. 

Seb. HeaVen knows with what unvvillingiu^ss niid bate 
I enter this damn'd place : but such extremes 



'5<3 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Of wrongs in love fight 'gainst religion's knowledge, 

That were I led by this disease to deaths 

As numberless as creatures that must die, 

I could not shun the way. — I know what 'tis 

To pity mad men now : they're wretched things 

That ever were created, if they be 

Of woman's making and her faithless vows. 

I fear they're now a kissing : what's a clock ? 

'Tis now but supper time : but night will come, 

And all new-married couples make short suppers. 

Whate'er thou art, I have no spare time to fear thee ; 

My horrors are so strong and great already 

Tliat thou secm'st nothing : Up and laze not ; 

Hadst thou my business, thou couldst ne'er sit so ; 

'Twould lirk thee into aii" a tliousaud mile. 

Beyond thy ointments : I would I were read 

So much in thy black pow'r, as mine own griefs. 

I'm in great need of help : wilt give me any ? 

Hec. Thy boldness takes me bravely ; we are all sworn 
To sweat for such a spirit ; see ; I regard thee, 
I rise, and bid thee welcome. What's thy wish now ? 

Seb. Oh my heart swells with 't. I must take breath first. 

Hec. Is 't to confound some enemy on the seas ? 
It may be done to-night. Stadlin's within ; 
She raises all your sudden ruinous storms 
That shipwreck barks ; and tears up growing oaks ; 
Flies over houses, and takes Anno Domini 
Out of a rich man's chimney (a sweet place for 't, 
He would be hang'd ere he would set his own years there ; 
They must be chamber'd in a live pound picture, 
A green silk curtain drawn before the eyes on 't. 
His rotten diseas'd years) ! Or dost thou envy 
The fat prosperity of any neighbor ? 
I'll call forth Hoppo, and her incantation 
Can straight destroy the young of all his cattle : 
Blast vine-yards, orchards, meadows ; or in one night 
Transport his dung, hay, corn, by reeks, whole stacks, 
Into thine own ground. 



TIIF- WITCH. 187 



Seb. This would come most richly now 
To many a country grazier : But my envy 
Lies not so low as cattle, corn, or wines : 
'Twill trouble your best pow'rs to give me ease. 

Hcc. Is it to starve up generation ? 
To strike a barrenness in man or woman ? 
Seb. Ilah! 

Hec. Hah ! Did you feel me there ? I knew your grief. 
Seb. Can there be such things done ? 
Hec. Are these the skins 
Of serpents ? these of snakes ? 
Seb. I see they are. 

Hec. So sure into what house these are convey'd 
Knit with these charms, and retentive knots, 
Neither the man begets, nor woman breeds, 
No, nor performs tlie least desire of wedlock, 
Being then a mutual duty ; I could give thee 
Chiroconita, Adincantida, 
Archimadon, Mannaritin, Calicia, 
Which I could sort to villainous barren ends ; 
But this leads the same way : More I could instance : 
As the same needles thrust into their pillows 
That sow and sock up dead men in their sheets : 
A privy grissel of a man that hangs 
After sun set : Good, excellent: yet all's there, Sir. 

Seb. You could not do a man that special kindness 
To part them utterly, now ? Could you do that '? 

Hec. No : time must do 't : we cannot disjoin wedlock ; 
'Tis of heaven's fastening : well may we raise jars, 
Jealousies, strifes, and heart-burning disagreements. 
Like a thick scurf o'er life, as did our master 
Upon that patient* miracle ; but tlie work itself 
Our power cannot disjoin. 

Seb. I depart happy 
In what I have then, being constrain'd to this : 
And grant, you greater powers that dispose men 

* Job. 



K,S f^NGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



That I may never need this hag again. \^Exit. 

Hec. I know he loves me not, nor there's no hope on 't ; 
'Tis for the love of mischief I do this : 
And that we ai'e sworn to the first oath we take. 

Hecate, Stadlin, Hoppo, with the other Witches, preparing for 

their midnight journey through the Air. Fieestone, Hecate's 

Son. 

Hec. The moon's a gallant : see how brisk she rides. 

Stad. Here's a rich evening, Hecate. 

Hec. Ay, is 't not, wenches. 
To take a journey of five thousand mile ? 

Hop. Ours will be more to-night. 

Hoc. Oh 'twill be precious. 
Heard you the owl yet ! 

Stad. Briefly in the copse, 
As we came through now. 

Hec. 'Tis high time for us then. 

Stad. There was a bat hung at my lips three times 
As we came through the woods, and drank her fill. 
Old Puckle saw her. 

Hec. You are fortunate still : 
The verj' screech owl lights upon your shoulder, 
And wooes you like a pigeon. Are you furnish'd ? 
Have you your ointments ? 

Stad. All. 

Hec. Prepare to flight then ; 
I '11 overtake you swiftly. 

Stad. Hie thee, Hecate : 
We shall be up betimes. 

Hec. ril reach you quickly. [T/te other Witches mount. 

Fire. Tiiey are all going a birding to-night. They talk of 
fowls in the air, tliat fly by day ; I am sure, they '11 
be a company of foul sluts there to-night. If we have 
not mortality offer'd,* I '11 be hanged; for they are able 
to putrily it, to infect a whole region. She spies me now. 

* Probably the true reading is after 7. 



THE WITCH. 159 



Hec. What, Firestone, our sweet son ? 

Fire. A little sweeter than some of you ; or a dunghill were too 

good for me. 
Hec. How much hast here ? 
Fire. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones ; besides six lizards, 

and three serpentine eggs. 
Hec. Dear and sweet boy : what herbs hast thou ? 
Fire. I have some Marmartin and Mandragon. 
Hec. Marmaritin and Mandragora thou wouldst say. 
Fire. Here 's Pannax too : I thank thee, my pan akes I am sure 
tVith kneeling down to cut 'em. 

Hec. And Selago, 
Hedge hysop too : how near he goes my cuttings ! 
Were they all cropt by moon-light ? 

Fire. Every blade of 'em, or I am a moon-calf, mother. 
Hec. Hie thee home with 'em. 
Look well to the house to-night ; I am for aloft. 

Fire. Aloft, quoth you ? I would you would break your neck 

once, that I might have all quickly. Hark, hark, 

mother ; they are above the Steeple already, flying over 

your head with a noise of musicians. 

Hec. They are indeed. Help me, help me ; I'm too late else. 

Song in the Mr. 

Come away, come away ; 
Hecate, Hecate, come away. 

Hec. I come, I come, I come, I come. 
With all the speed I may, 
With all the speed I may. 
Where's Stadlin ? 
[Ahove.] Hfre. 

Hec. Where's Puckle ? 

[.^Joi'c] Here : 

And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too : 
We lack but you ; we lack but yau : 
Come away, make up the count. 

Hec. I will but 'noint, and then I mount. 

[A spirit like n Cat descends. 



160 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



[Above.} There's one come down to fetch his dues ; 

A kiss, a coll, a slip of blood : 

And why thou stay'st so long, I muse, 1 muse, 

Since the air's so sweet and good. 

Hec. Oh art thou come ? 
What news, what news ? " 

Spirit. All goes still to our delight : 
Either come, or else 
Refuse, refuse. 

Hec. Now I am furnish'd for the flight. 

Fire- Hark, hark, the Cat sings a brave treble in her own lan- 
guage. 

Hec. [Going up.] Now I go, now I fly, 
Malkin my sweet Spirit and I. 
Oh what a dainty pleasure 'tis 
To ride in the air 
When the moon shines fair. 
And sing, and dance, and toy, and kiss : 
Over woods, liigh rocks, and mountains. 
Over seas (our mistress' fountains). 
Over steep towers and turrets. 
We fly by night 'mongst troops of Spirits. 
No ring of bells to our ears sounds. 
No howls of wolves, no yelps of hounds ; 
No, not the noise of water's-breach, 
Or cannon's throat, our height can reach. 

[Above.'] No ring of bells, &c. 

Fire. Well, mother, I thank your kindness ; you must be 
Gamboling in the air, and leave me to walk here like a fool and a 
mortal. * ***** 

A Duchess consults the Witch about inflicting a sudden Death. 
DucHEss. Hecate. Firestone. 
Hec. What death is 't you desire for Almachildes ? 
Duch. A sudden and a subtle. 
Hec. Then I 've fitted you. 
Here lie the gifts of both ; sudden and subtle : 
His j)icture made in wax, and gently molten 



THE WITCH. 101 



By a blue fire, kindled with dead men's eyes, 
Will waste him by defrrccs. 
Duch. In what time prithee ? 
Hec. Perhaps in a moon's progress. 
Duch. What, a month ? 
Out upon pictures, if they be so tedious : 
Give me things with some life. 
Hec. Then seek no farther. 

Duch. This must bo done with speed, dispatch'd this night, 
If it be possible. 

Hec. I have it for you : 
Here 's that will do 't : stay but perfection's time, 
And that' s not five hours hence. 
Duch. Canst thou do this ? 
Hec. Can I ? 

Duch. I mean, so closely ? 
Hec. So closely do you mean too ? 
Duch. So artfully, so cunningly ? 
Hec. Worse and worse. Doubts and incredulities. 
They make me mad. Let scrupulous creatures know : 
Cum volui, ripis ipsis mirantibus, amnes 
In fontes rediere suos ; concussaquc sisto, 
Stantia concutio cantu freta ; nubila polio, 
Nubilaque induco : vcntos abigoque, vocoque. 
Vipereas runipo verbis ct carmine fauces ; 
Et sylvas moveo, jubeoque tremiscero monies, 
Et mugiere solum, manesque exirc scpulchris. 
Te quoque, Luna, traho. 
Can you doubt mc then, daughter ; 

That can n)ake mountains tremble, miles of woods walk : 
Whole earth's foundations bellow, and the spirits 
Of the entonib'd to burst out from their marbles; 
Nay, draw yon Moon to my involv'd designs ? 

Fire. \ know as well as can bo when iny mother 's mad, and 
our 
Great cat angry ; for one spits French then, and the other spits 
Latin. 



Duch. I did not doubt yon, mother, 
VART 1. 12 



102 KNdLISlI J)RAMAT1C POETS. 



lice. No ! wliiit, (lid yoii ? 
My powi>r 's so iinn, it is not *o bo (jucstion'd. 

Duck. Forgive what 's past ; and now I know th' offensiveness 
That vexes art, 1 '11 shun the occasion over. 

Hec. Jjoave all to me and my five sisters, daughter. 
It shall he coiivey'd in at howlet-time. 
'I'ake you no can>. My sj)irits know their moments: 
KavtMi or screech-owl never (ly hy the door 
Hut they call in (i thank 'em) and they lose not hy 't. 
1 give 'em barley soakM in inlant's blood : 
They shall havi' semina cum sanguine. 
Their gorg(> crannn'd lull, if they come once to our house : 
We are no niggard. 

Fire. They liire but too well when they come hither : they ale 
up as much the other night as would have made nie a 
good conscionable pudding. 

Hec. Give me sonu^ lizard's brain, quickly, Firestone. 
Where 's grannam Stadlin, and all the rest of" the sisters ? 

Fire. All at hand, forsooth. 

yThc other Witches appear. 

Hec. (Jive me Marniarilin ; some Bear-breech : when? 

Fire. Here 's liear-breech and lizard's brain, forsooth. 

Hec. Into the vess(>l ; 
And felcdi throe ounces of th(> red-hair'il girl 
I kill'd last midnight. 

Fire. Whereabout, sweet mother? 

Hec. Hip ; hip, or flank. Where 's the Acopus ? 

Fire. You shall have Acopus, forsootii. 

Hec. Stir, stir about ; whilst 1 begin the charm. 

../ Charm Song about a VessrI. 
Hec. Whwk spirits and white, red spirits and grey ; 
Mingle, n>ingl(>, mingle, you that mingle may. 
Tilly, Tiflin, keep it stiff in; 
l''ire-drake, I'uckey, make it lucky; 
Liard, Robin, you must bob in. 
Round, around, around, about, about ; 
All 111 come running in, all Good keep out. 



THE WITCH. 163 



First Witch. II(!re 's the blood of u but. 

Hcc. Put in that, oh, put in that. 

Sec. Witch. Hero 's libbanl's banc. 

Hec. Put in aj^ain. 

First Witch. The juico of toad ; tiio oil of adder. 

Sec. Witch. Those will make the younker madder. 

Hec. Put in^ there 's all, and rid the stench. 

Fire. Nay, here 's three ounces of the red.hair'd wench. 

All. Round, around, around, &c. 

Hcc. So, so, onou<fli : into the vcssc^l with it. 
There ; 't hath the true perfection : I ani so light* 
At any mischief, there's no villainy 
But is a tune methinks. 

Fire. A tunc ! 'tis to the tune, of damnation then, I warrant 
you. 
And that song hath a villainous burthen. 

Hec. Come my sweet sisters, let the air strike our tune ; 
Whilst we show reverence to yon peeping moon. 

[ The Witches dance, el Exeunt. 

[Thoimli Hoino rcHciubhiiicc iniiy Ix; truccsd b(!tw(!on tlu! Chiirrns in Mao- 
ln'tli, iuid tlio incantulions in this I'lay, wliicli is supposed to iiavn prcccMJed 
it, tills coinc.idenci! will not ilctract inucli from tlic uri;^iniility of Sliakspcarc. 
His witches arc distin^^uislicd from llu! Witclu^s of MiddliJlon by essential 
(lillcrenees. 'i'iicso are creatures to whom man or woman i>lottinf^ some 
dire mischief mif^lit resort for occasional consultation. Those oriKiuato 
deeds of blood, and begin bad impulses to miin. I''rom the moment that 
their eyes first meet with Macbeth's, he is spell bound. That meetin;^ 
sways his destiny. He can never break the fascination. These Wilcluis 
can hurt the body : those have power over the soul. — Hecate in IVli(l<ll(!ton 
has a Son, a low buflbou : tiic haj^s of Shakspeare have neither child of their 
own, nor seem to be descended from any parent. They are foul Anomalies, 
of whom we know not whence they are sprung, nor wlietiier they have 
l)eginning or ending. As they are without human passions, so they seem 
to be without human relations. They come with thunder and lightning, 
and vanish to airy music. This is all wi; know of them. — I'^xeept Hecate, 
they have no names ; which heigiitens tluiir mysteriousness. Their names, 
and some of the properties, which Middleton has given to his hags, excite 
smiles. The Weird Sisters an; serious things. Tlw-ir presence (tatuiot co- 
exist with mirlh. Hut, in a leaser degree, th(! Witches of Middleton aro 
fine creations. 'I'heir power too is, in some measure, over the mind. They 
raise jars, jealousies, strifes, like a thick scurf d' er life.l 

* Light-hearted. 



164 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

THE WITCH OF EDMONTON ; A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY WILLIAM 
ROWLEY, THOMAS DECKER, JOHN FORD, &c. 

Mother Sawyer (before she turns Witch) alone. 

Saw. And why on me ? why should the envious world 
Throw all their scandalous malice upon me ? 
'Cause I am poor, deform'd, and ignorant, 
And like a bow buckled and bent togetlier 
By some more strong in mischiefs than myself ; 
Must I for that be made a common sink 
For all the tilth and rubbish of men's tongues 
To fiill and run into ? Some call me Witch, 
And being ignorant, of myself, they go 
About to teach me how to be one : urging 
That my bad tongue (by their bad usage made so) 
Forespeaks their cattle, doth bewitch their corn, 
Tliemselves, their servants, and their babes at nurse : 
This they enforce upon me ; and in part 
Make me to credit it.* 

Banks, a Former, enters. 

Banks. Out, out upon thee, Witch. 

Saio. Dost call me Witch ? 

Banks. I do. Witch, I do : 
And worse I would, knew I a name more hateful. 
What makest thou upon my ground ? 

Saw. Gather a few rotten sticks to warm me. 

Banks. Down with them when I bid thee, quickly ; 
I' 11 make thy bones rattle in thy skin else. 

Saw. You won't ? churl, cut-throat, miser : there they be. 
Would they stuck cross thy throat, thy bowels, thy maw, 
thy midritr 

Banks. Say'st thou me so? Hag, out of my ground. 

SatP. Dost strike me, slave, curmudgeon ? Now thy bones 
aches, thy joints cramps. 
And convulsions stretch and crack thy sinews. 

* This Soliloquy anticipates all that Addison has said in the conclusio* 
of the 117th Spectator. 



THE WITCH OK EDMONTON. lOj 



Banks. Cursing, thou hag ? take that, and that. \Exit. 

Saw. Strike, do : and vvitiicr'd may that hand and arm 
Whose blows have lani'd me, drop IVom tlie rotten trunk. 
Abuse me ! beat me ! call me hag and witch ! 
What is the name, wliere, and by what art learn'd ? 
What spells, or charms, or invocations, 
May the thing call'd F'amiliar be purchased ? 

• 1 am shunn'd 

And hated like a sickness : made a scorn 

To all degrees and sexes. I have heard old beldams 

Talk of Familiars in the siiape of" mice. 

Rats, ferrets, weasels, and 1 wot not what. 

That have appear'd : and suck'd, some say, their blood. 

But by what means they came acquainted with them, 

I'm now ignorant. Would some power good or bad 

Instruct me which way I might be reveng'd 

Upon this churl, I'd go out of myself. 

And give this fury leave to dwell within 

This ruined cottage, ready to fall with age : 

Abjure all goodness, be at hate with prayer. 

And study curses, imprecations. 

Blasphemous speeches, oaths, detested oaths. 

Or anything that's ill ; so I might work 

Revenge upon this miser, this black cur, 

That barks, and bites, and sucks the very blood 

Of me, and of my credit. 'Tis all one 

To bo a witch as to be countc^d one. 

S/ic gets a familiar which serves her in the likeness of a Black Dog 

Mother Sawyer. Familiar. 
Saw. I am dried up 
With cursing and with madness; and have yet 
No blood to moisten these sweet lips of thine. 
Stand on thine hind-legs up. Kiss me, my Tommy ; 
And rub away soine wrinkles on my brow. 
By making my old ribs to shrug for joy 
Of thy fine tricks. What hast thou done ? Let's tickle. 
Hast thou struck the horse lame as I bid thee ? 



1(36 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Famil. Yes, and nipt the sucking-child. 

Saio. Ho, ho, my dainty, 
My little pearl. No lady loves her hound, 
Monkey, or pai'akeet, as I do thee. 

Famil. The maid has been churning butter nine hours, but it 
shall not come. 

Smo. Let 'em eat cheese and choak. 

Famil. I had rare sport 
Among the clowns in the morrice. 

Saw. I could dance 
Out of my skin to hear thee. But, my curl-pate, 

That jade, that foul-tongucd Nan Ratcliff, 

Who, for a little soap lick'd by my sow. 

Struck, and had almost lamed it : did not I charge thee 

To pinch that quean to X\\e heart ? * * * * 

Her Familiar absents himself: she invokrx him. 

Saw. Not see me in three days ? 

I'm lost without my Tomalin ; prithee come ; 

Revenge to me is sweeter far than life ; 

Thou art my raven, on whose coal-black wings 

Revenge comes (lying to me : Oh, my best love, 

I am on fire (even in the midst of ice) 

Raking my blood up, till my shrunk knees feel 

Thy curl'd head leaning on them. Come then, my darling, 

If in the air thou hover'st, fall upon me 

In some dark cloud ; and, as 1 oft have seen 

Dragons and serpents in the elements, 

Appear thou now so to me. Art thou i' the sea ! 

Muster up all the monsters from the deep, 

And be the ugliest of them : so that my bulch 

Show but his swarth cheek to me, let earth cleave, 

And break from hell, I care not ; could I run 

Like a swift powder-mine beneath the world, 

Up would I blow it, all to find out thee. 

Though I lay ruin'd in it. — Not yet come ? 

I must then fall to my old prayer : sanctibiceter nomen tuum. 



ATHEIST'S TKAliKDY if,7 



He cornea in Wliitc. 
Saw. Why tlost tlioii thus apprar to inn in white, 
As it" thou wcrt the jfhost of" my dear love ? 

Famil. I am dogged, list not to tell thee, yet to torment thee, 
My whiteness puts thee in mind of thy winding sheet. 
Saw. Am I near death ? 
Fnmil. He hlastcd with the news. 
Whiteness is day's (ootboy, a forerunner to light, wliich shows 
thy old rivel'd face : villainies are stript naked, the 
witch must be beaten out of her cockpit. 
Satv. Wliy to mine eyes art thou a (lag of truce ? 
I am at poace with none ; 'tis tlio black color, 
Or none, which 1 fight under : I do not like 
Thy puritan-paleness. 

[Mother Sawyer fliircrs froin the hags of MidtUoton or Shakspeare. She 
is tlie plain traditioiuil old woman Witch of our ancestors ; poor, deformed 
and ignorant; the terror of villages, herself amenable to a justice. That 
should be a hardy slierirt", with the power of a county at his heels, that 
would lay hands on the Weird Sisters They are of another jurisdiction. 
Hut upon the common and received opinion the author (or authors).have 
engrailed strong fancy. There is something frightfully earnest in her invo- 
cations to the Familiar.] 



THE ATHEIST'S TRAGEDY ; OR, THE HONEST MAN'S 
REVENGE. HY CYRIL TOURNEUR. 

UAinville {the Jllhttist) with the aid of his unchcd instrument, Boj'achio, 
murders his Brother, Monlferrers, far his Estate. Jlfter the deed is 
done, BoracJiio and he talk together of the circumstances which attended 
the murder. 

D'Arn. Hero's a sweet comedy, begins with O dolentis, and 

concludes with ha, ha, he. 
Bor. Ha, ha, he. 
D^ Am. O my echo ! l could stand reverberating this sweet 

musical air of joy, till I had perished my sound lungs 

with violent laughter. Lovely night-iaven, thou hast 

seized a carcase ? 



108 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Bor. Put him outon's pain. I lay so fitly underneath the bank 
from whence he fell, that ere his faltering tongue could 
utter double O, 1 knocked out his brains with this fair 
ruby ; and had another stone just of this form and big- 
ness ready, that I had laid in the broken scull upon the 
ground for his pillow, against the which they thought ho 
fell and perished. 
D^Am. Upon tiiis ground I'll build my manor house, 
And this shall be chiefest corner stone. 

Bor. This crown'd the most judicious murder, that 
The brain of man was e'er deliver'd of 

D' Am. Aye, mark the plot. Not any circumstance 
That stood within the reach of the design, 
Of persons, dispositions, matter, time. 
Or place, but by this brain of mine was made 
An instrumental helj) ; yet nothing from 
The induction to the aceoniplishnient seem'd forced, 
Or done o' purpose, but by accident. 

[Here they reckon up the several circii7nstances. 
Bor. Then darkness did 
Protect the execution of the work 
Both from prevention and discovery. 

D^Am. Here was a murder bravely carried through 
The eye of observation, unobserved. 

Bor. And those ftiat saw the passage of it, made 
The instruments ; yet knew not wliat they did. 

D'Am. That power of rule, philosoj)hers ascribe 
To him they call the Supreme of the Stars, 
Making their influences governors 
Of sublunary creatures, w hen theirselves 
Are senseless of their optn-ations. [Thunder and lightning. 

What ! dost start at thunder ? Credit my belief, 'tis a mere 

etlect of nature, an exhalation hot and dry, involved 
within a watry vapor in the middle region of the air, 
whose coldness congealing that thick moisture to a 
cloud, the angry exhalation shut within a prison of con- 
trary quality, strives to be free ; and with the violent 



ATHEIST'S TRAGEDY. 169 

eruption through the grossness of that cloud, makes this 
noiso wc hear. 

Bor. 'Tis a fearful noise. 

D^Am. 'Tis a brave noise ; and, methinks, graces our accom- 
plished project, as a peal of ordnance does a triumph. 
It speaks encouragement. Now nature shows thee how 
it favor'd our performance : to forbear this noise when 
we set forth, because it should not terrify my brother's 
going home, which would have dashed our purpose : to 
forbear this liglitning in our passage, lest it should ha' 
warned him of the pitfall. Then propitious nature 
. winked at our proceeding ; now, it doth express how 
that forbearance favor'd our success. ***** 

Drowned Soldier. 

walking upon the fatal shore, 

Among the slaughter'd bodies of their men, 

Which the full-stomaoh'd sea had cast upon 

The sands, it was my unhappy chance to light 

Upon a face, whose favor when it lived 

My astonish'd mind inform'd me I had seen. 

He lay in his armor, as if that had been 

His coffin ; and the weeping sea (like one 

Whose milder temper doth lament the death 

Of him whom in his rage he slew) runs up 

The shore, embraces him, kisses his cheek ; 

Goes back again, and forces up the sands , 

To bury him ; and every time it parts, 

Sheds tears upon him ; till at last (as if 

It could no longer endure to see the man 

Whom it had slain, yet loath to leave him) with 

A kind of unresolv'd unwilling pace. 

Winding her waves one in another (like 

A man that folds his arms, or wrings his hands 

For grief) ebb'd from the body, and descends ; 

As if it would sink down into the earth, 

Aud hide itself for shame of such a deed.* 

• This way of description, which seems unwilling ever to leave off 



170 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Match Refused. 
I entertain the offer of this match, 
With purpose to confirm it presently. 
I have already mov'd it to my daughter ; 
Her soft excuses savor'd at the firtt 
Methought but of a modest innocenoe 
Of blood, whose unmov'd stream was never drawn 
Into the current of affection. But when I 
Replied with more familiar arguments, 
Thinking to make her apprehension bold ; 
Her modest blush feQ to a pale dislike, 
And she refus'd it with such confidence, 
As if she had been prompted by a love 
Inclining firmly to some other man ; 
And in that obstinacy she remains. 

Love and Courage. 
O do not wrong him. 'Tis a generous mind 
That led his disposition to the war ; 
For gentle love and noble courage are 
So near allied, that one begets another : 
Or love is sister, and courage is the brother. 
Could I affect him better than before, 
His soldier's heart would make me love him more. 



THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. BY CYRIL TOURNEUR. 
Vindici addresses the Scull of his dead Lady. 
Thou sallow picture of my poison'd love. 
My study's ornament, thou shell of death, 
Once the bright face of my betroth'd lady, 
When life and beauty naturally fill'd out 
These ragged imperfections: 

weaving parenthesis within parenthesis, was brought to its height by Sii 
Philip Siilney. He seems to have set the example to Shakspeare. Many 
beautiful instances may be found all over the Arcadia. These boimtifuj 
Wits always give fu'.l measure, pressed down and running jver 



THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 171 

When two heav'n-pointed diamonds were set 

In those unsightly rings then 'twas a face 

So far beyond the artificial shine 

Of any woman's bought complexion, 

That the uprightest man (if such there be 

That sin but seven times a day) broke custom, 

And made up eight with looking after her. 

O she was able to ha' made a usurer's son 

Melt all his patrimony in a kiss ; 

And what his father fifty years told. 

To have consum'd, and yet his suit been cold. 

Again. 
Here 's an eye, 
Able to tempt a great man — to serve God ; 
A pretty hanging lip, that has forgot now to dissemble. 
Methinks this mouth should make a swearer tremble ; 
A drunkard clasp his teeth, and not undo 'em, 
To suflfer wet damnation to run thro' 'em, 
Here 's a cheek keeps her color let the wind go whistle : 
Spout rain, we fear thee not : be hot or cold. 
All 's one with us : and is not he absurd. 
Whose fortunes are upon their faces set. 
That fear no other God but wind and wet ? 
Does the silk -worm expend her yellow labors 
For thee ? for thee does she undo herself? 
Are lordships sold to maintain ladyships, 
For the poor benefit of a bewitching minute ? 
Why does yon fellow falsify highways, 
And put his life between the judge's lips, 
To refine such a thing ? keep his horse and men, 
To beat their valors for her ? 
Surely we 're all mad people-, and they 
Whom we think are, are not. 
Does every proud and self-affecting dame 
Camphire her face for this ? and grieve her maker 
In sinful baths of milk, when many an infant starves, 
For her superfluous outside, for all this ' 



17vi KNGLISll DRAMATIC I'OETS. 



Who now bids twenty pound a night ? prepares 

Music, perfumes, and sweet meats ? all are hush'd. 

Thou may'st lie chaste now ! it were fine, methinks, 

To have thee seen at revels, forgetful feasts, 

And unclean brothels : sure 'twould fright the sinner, 

And make him a good coward : put a reveller 

Out of his antick amble, 

And cloy an epicure witli empty dishes, 

Here might a scornful and ambitious woman 

Look through and tlirough liersolf. — See ladies, with false forms, 

You deceive men, but cannot deceive worms,* 

Vindici, having disguised /rhnst/f, makes trial of fiis Sister Castizd'a 
virtue ; and afterwards of his Mother's. 

ViNDlCI. CaSTIZA. 

Vin. Lady, the best of wishes to your sex, 
Fair skins and new gowns. \^Offers her a letter. 

Cast. Oh, they shall thank you, Sir. 
Whence this ? 

Vin. Oh, from a dear and worthy friend. 

Cast. From whom ? 

Vin. The duke's son. 

Cast. Receive that. [^1 Box o' the Ear to her Brother. 

I swore I would jnit anger in my hand. 
And pass the virgin limits of myself, 
To him that next appear'd in that base othce, 
To be his sin's attorney. Bear to him 
That figure of my hate upon thy cheek, 
Whilst 'tis yet hot, and I'll reward thee for 't : 
Tell him my honor sluill liave a rich name, 

• The male and foinalo Skeleton in Gondibert is the finest lecture of 
mortitication which has been read from bones. 

Tliis dismal i;allen, lofty. Ions;; and wide, 

Was hunu; with Skeletons of every kind ; 
Human, and all that learned human pride 

Thinks made ti) obey man's \\\^\\ immortal mind. 
Yet on that wall hanjjfs lie, too, who so thoui);lit: 

And she, dried by Him, who that He obey'd. 



THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 173 



When several harlots shall share his with shame. 

Farewell ; commend me to him in my hate. [Esni. 

Via. It is the sweetest box 
That e'er my nose came nigh ; 
The finest draw- work cull'tljat e'er was worn ; 
1 '11 love tiiis blow lor over, and tliis clioek 
Shall still hi'ncelbrward take tiie wall of this. 
Oil, I 'm above my tongue : most constant sister, 
In this thou hast right honorable shown ; 
Many are call'd by their honor, that have none. 
Thou art approv'd for ever in my thoughts. 
It is not in the power of words to taint thee. 
And yet for the salvation of my oath, 
As my resolve in that point, I will lay 
Hard siege unto my mother, tho' I know, 
A siren's tongue could not bewitch her so. 
Mass, fitly here she comes ! thanks, my disguise — 

The Mother enters. 

Madam, good afternoon. 

Moth. Y 'are welcome, Sir. 

Vin. The next of Italy commends him to you, 
Our mighty expectation, the duke's son. 

Moth. I think myself much honor'd, that he pleases 
To rank me in his thoughts. 

Vin. So may you, lady : 
One that is like to be our sudden duke ; 
The crown gapes for him every tide ; and then 
Commander o'er us all, do but think on him. 
How blest were they now that could pleasure him 
E'en with anything almost ! 

Moth. Ay, save their honor. 

Vin. Tut, one would let a little of that go too, 
And ne'er be seen in 't, ne'er be seen in 't, mark you, 
1 'd wink and let it go. 

Moth. Marry but I would not. 

Vin. Marry but I would, I hope, 1 know you would too. 
If you'd that blood now which you gave your daughter. 



174 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



To her indeed 'tis, this wheel comes about ; 

That man that must be all mis, perhaps ere morning 

(For his white father does but mould away) 

Has long desir'd your daughter. 

Moth. Desir'd? 

Vin. Nay, but hear me, 
He desires now, that will command hereafter ; 
Therefore be wise, 1 speak as more a friend 
To you than him ; madam, I know you 're poor. 
And (lack the day !) there are too many poor ladies already ; 
Why should you wax the number ? 'tis despised. 
Live wealthy, rightly understand the world, 
And chide away that foolish country girl 
Keeps company with your daughter, Chastity. 

Moth. O fie, fie ! the riches of the world cannot hire a mother 
To such a most unnatural task. 

Vin. No, but a thousand angels can ; 
Men have no power, angels must work you to 't : 
The world descends into such base-born evils, 
That forty angels can make fourscore devils. 
There will be fools still I perceive — still fool ? 
Would I be poor, dejected, scorn'd of greatness. 
Swept from the palace, and see others' daughters 
Spring with the dew of the court, having mine own 
So much desir'd and lov'd — by the duke's son ? 
No, I would raise my state upon her breast, 
And call her eyes my tenants ; I would count 
My yearly maintenance upon her cheeks ; 
Take coach upon her lip ; and all her parts 
Should keep men after men ; and I would ride 
In pleasure upon pleasure. 

You took great pains for her, once when it was, ^ 

Let her requite it now, tho' it be but some ; 
You brought her forth, she may well bring you home. 

Moth. O heavens ! this o'ercomes me ! 

Vin. Not I hope already ? [Aside. 

Moth. It is too strong for me ; men know that know us, 
Wc are so weak their words can overthrow us : 



THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 175 

He touch'd me nearly, made my virtues bate, 

When his tongue struck upon my poor estate. [Aside. 

Vin. I even quake to proceed, my spirit turns edge. 
I fear me she 's unmother'd, yet I'll venture. [Aside. 

What think you now, lady ? speak, are you wiser ? 
What said advancement to you ? thus it said. 
The daughter's fall lifts up the mother's head : 
Did it not. Madam ? but I '11 swear it does 
In many places ; but this age fears no man, 
'Tis no shame to be bad, because 'tis common. 

Moth. Aye, that 's the comfort on 't. 

Vin. The comfort on 't ! — 
I keep the best for last. Can these persuade you 
To forget heaven — and — [Offers her money. 

Moth. Ay, these are they — 

Vin. Oh! 

Moth. That enchant our sex ; 
These are the means that govern our affections, — 
That woman 

Will not be troubled with the mother long, 
That sees the comfortable shine of you : 
I blush to think what for your sakes I '11 do. 

Vin. O suffering heaven ! with thy invisible finger, 
E'en at this instant turn the precious side 
Of both mine eye-balls inward, not to see myself. 

[Aside. 

Moth. Look you. Sir. 

Vin. Hollo. 

Moth. Let us thank your pains. 

Vin. O you are a kind Madam. 

Moth. I '11 see how I can move. 

Vin. Your words will sting. 

Moth. If she be still chaste, I '11 ne'er call her mine. 

Vin. Spoke truer than you meant it ! 

Moth. Daughter Castiza 

Cast, [within.] Madam ! 

Vin. O she 's yonder, meet her. 
Troops of celestial soldiers guard her heart. 



170 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Your dam nas devils enough to take her part. 

[Castiza returns. 

Cast. Madam, what makes yon evil-offic'd man 
In presence of you ? 

Moth. Why? 

Cast. He lately brought 
Immodest writing sent from the duke's son, 
To tempt me to dishonorable act. 

Moth. Dishonorable act ? — good honorable fool. 
That wouldst be honest, 'cause thou wouldst be so, 
Producing no one reason but thy will ; 
And it has a good report, prettily commended, 
But pray by whom ? poor people : ignorant people ; 
The better sort, I 'm sure, cannot abide it. 
And by what rule should we square out our lives 
But by our betters' actions ? oh, if thou knew'st 
What 'twere to lose it, thou wouldst never keep it ; 
But there 's a cold curse laid upon all maids, 
Whilst others clip the sun, they clasp the shades. 
Deny advancement ! treasure ! the duke's son ! 

Cast. I cry you mercy, lady, I mistook you ; 
Pray did you see my mother ? which way went you ? 
Pray God I have not lost her. 

Vin. Prettily put by. [Aside. 

Moth. Are you as proud to me, as coy to him ? 
Do you not know me now ? 

Cast. Why, are you she ? 
The world 's so chang'd, one shape into another. 
It is a wise child now that knows her mother. 

Vin. Mos; right, i' faith. [Aside. 

Moth. I owe your cheek my hand 
For that presumption now, but I '11 forget it ; 
Come, you shall leave those childish 'haviors. 
And understand your time. Fortunes flow to you. 
What will you be a girl ? 
If all fear'd drowning that spy waves ashore. 
Gold would grow rich, and all the merchants poor. 

Cast. It is a pretty saying of a wicked one, but methinks now 



THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 177 

It does not show so well out of your mouth ; 
Better in his. 

Vin. Faith, bad enough in both, 
Were I in earnest, as I '11 seem no less. \^Aside. 

I wonder, lady, your own mother's words 
Cannot be taken, nor stand in full force. 
'Tis honesty you urge ; what 's honesty ? 
'Tis but heaven's beggar ; and what woman is so foolish to keep 

honesty, 
And be not able to keep herself? no, 
Times are grown wiser, and will keep less charge. 
A maid that has small portion now, intends 
To break up house, and live upon her friends. 
How blest are you ! you have happiness alone ; 
Others must fall to thousands, you to one ; 
Sufficient in himself to make your forehead 
Dazzle the world with jewels, and petitionary people 
Start at your presence. 
O think upon the pleasure of the palace ! 
Secured ease and state ! the stirring meats. 
Ready to move out of the dishes, that e'en now quicken when 

they're eaten ! 
Banquets abroad by torch-light ! music ! sports ! 
Bare-headed vassals, that had ne'er the fortune 
To keep on their own hats, but let horns wear 'em ! 
Nine coaches waiting — hurry, hurry, hurry — 

Cast. Aye, to the devil — 

Vin. Aye, to the devil ! to the duke, by my faith. 

Moth. Aye, to the duke. Daughter, you'd scorn to think 
Of the devil, and you were there once. 

Vin. Who'd sit at home in a neglected room, 
Dealing her short-liv'd beauty to the pictures. 
That are as useless as old men, when those 
Poorer in face and fortune than herself 
Walk with a hundred acres on their backs, 
Fair meadows cut into green fore-parts ? — 
Fair trees, those comely foretops of the field. 
Are cut to maintain head-tires : — much untold— r 
PAKT 1. 13 



17S ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



All thrives but chastity, she lies cold. 
Nay, shall I come near to you ? mark but this : 
Why are there so few honest women, but because 'tis the poorer 
profession ? tliat's accounted best, tliat's best tbllowed ; 
least in trade, least in lhsliit)n ; and that's not honesty, be- 
lieve it ; and do but note the low and dejected price of it ; 
Lose but a pearl, we search and cannot brook it : 
But that once gone, who is so mad to look it ? 

Moih. Troth, he says true. 

Cast. False : I defy you both. 
1 have endur'd you with an ear of fire ; 
Your tongues have struck hot irons on my face. 
Mother, come from that poisonous woman there. 

Moth. Where ? 

Cast. Do you not see her ? she's t^x) inward then. 
Slave, perish in thy othce. You heavens please, 
Henceforth to make tlie mother a disease. 
Which lirst begins with me ; yet I've outgone you. [Exit. 

Vin. O angels, clap your w ings upon the skies. 
And give this virgin crystal plaudities! [A.sidc. 

Moth. Peevish, coy, foolish ! — but return this answer. 
My lord shall be most welcome, when his pleasure 
Conducts him this way ; I will sway mine own ; 
Women with women can work best alone. [Exd. 

Vin. Forgive me, heaven, to call my mother wicked ! 

lessen not my days upon the earth. 

1 cannot lv:>nor her. 

T/if Jirotfirr.t, Vf^uUci and Hippolito, threaten their Mother with Death 
fo' consenting to the Dishonor of their Siste^^ 

Via. O t'.iou for whom no name is bad enough. 

Moth. 'hat mean my sons? what, will you nuirther me? 

Vin. vVicked unnatural parent ! 

Hip. Friend of women ! 

Moth. Oh ! are sons turn'd monsters ! help ! 

Vin. In vain. 

Moth. Are ye so barbaixius to set iron nipples 
Upon the breast tliat gave you suck ? 



THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 179 



Vin. That breast 
Is turn'd to quarled poison. 

Moth. Cut not your days for 't. Am not I your mother ? 

Vin. Thou dost usurp that title now by fraud, 
For in that shell of mother breeds a bawd. 

Moth. A bawd ! O name far loathsomer than hell ! 

Hip. It should bo so, knew'st thou thy office well. 

Moth. I hate it. 

Vin. Ah, is it possibly you powers on high, 
That women should dissemble when they die ? 

Moth. Dissemble ! 

Via. Did not the duke's son direct 
A fellow of the w orld's condition hither, 
That did corrupt all that was good in thee ? 
Made thee uncivilly forget thyself. 
And work our sister to his purpose '? 

Moth. Who, 1? 
That had been monstrous. I defy that man 
For any such intent. None lives so pure, 
But shall be soil'd with slander. 
Good son, believe it not. 

Vin. Oh, I'm in doubt 
Whether I am myself or no- 
Stay, let me look again upon this face. 
Who shall be saved when mothers have no grace ? 

[Resumes his Disguise. 

Hip. 'Twould make one half despair. 

Vin. I was the man. 
Defy me now, let's see, do 't modestly. 

Moth. O hell unto my soul ! 

Vin. In that disguise, I, sent from the duke's son, 
Tried you, and found you base metal, 
As any villain might have done. 

Moth. O no. 
No tongue but yours could have bewitched me so. 

Vin. O nimble in damnation, quick in turn ! 
There is no devil could strike fire so soon. 
I am confutf d in a word. 



ISO ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

3Ioth. Oh sons, 
Forgive me, to myself I'll prove more true; 
You that should honor mo, I kneel to you. 

Vin. A mother to give aim to her own daughter ! 

Hip. True, brother ; how far beyond nature 'tis, 
Though many mothers do it. 

Vin. Nay, and you draw teai's once, go you to bed. 
Wet will make iron blush and change to red. 
Brother it rains, "twill spoil your dagger^house it. 

Hip. 'Tis done. 

Vin. V faith 'tis a sweet shower, it does much good. 
The fruitful grounds and meadows of her soul 
Have been long dry ; pour down, thou blessed dew. 
Rise, mother ; troth, this shower has made you higher. 

Moth. O you heavens ! 
Take this infectious spot out of my soul ; 
ril rince it in seven waters of mine eyes. 
Make my tears salt enough to taste of grace. 
To weep is to our sex naturally given ; 
But to weep truly, that's a gift from heaven. 

Vin. Nay, I'll kiss you now. Kiss her, brother • 
Let's marry her to our souls, wherein's no lust, 
And honorably love her. 

Hip. Let it be. 

Vin. For honest women are so seld and rare 
'Tis good to cherish those poor few that are. 
O you of easy Avax ! do but imagine 
Now the disease has lot\ you, how loprously 
That office would have cling'd unto your forehead < 
All mothers that had any graceful hue. 
Would have worn masks to hide their face at you. 
It would have grown to this, at your foul name 
Green-color'd maids would have turn'd red with shame. 

Hip. And then our sister, full of hire and baseness — 

Vin. There had been boiling lead again ! 
The duke's son's great concubine ! 
A drab of state, a cloth-o'-silver slut, 
To have her train borne up, and her soul trail in the dirt 



THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 181 

Hip. To be great, miserable ; to be rich, eternally wretched. 

Vin. O common madness ! 
Ask but the tliriving'st harlot in cold blood, 
Slie'd give the world to make her honor good. 
Perhaps you'll say, but only to the duke's son 
In private ; why, she first begins with one 
Who afterwards to thousands proves a whore : 
Break ice in one place, it will crack in more. 

Moth. Most certainly applied. 

Hip. O brother, you forget our business. 

Vin. And well remember'd ; joy's a subtil elf; 
I think man's happiest when he forgets himself. 
Farewell, once dry, now holy-water'd mead ; 
Our hearts wear featliers that before wore lead. 

Moth. I'll give you this, that one I never knew 
Plead better for, and 'gainst the devil than you. 

Vin. You make me proud on 't. 

Hip. Commend us in all virtue to our sister. 

Vin. Ay, for the love of heaven, to that true maid. 

Moth. With my best words. 

Vin. Why that was motherly said.* 

Castiza seems to consent to her Mother's wicked motion. 

Castiza. Mother. 

Cast. Now, mother, you have wrought with me so strongly, 
That, what for my advancement, as to calm 
The trouble of your tongue, I am content. 

Moth. Content, to what ? 

Cast. To do as you have wish'd me : 
To prostitute my breast to the duke's son, 
And put myself to common usury. 

* The reality and life of this Dialogue passes any sccnical illusion I ever 
felt. I never read it but my ears tini^le, and I feel a hot blush spread my 
cheeks, as if I were presently about to " proclaim " some such " malefac- 
tions" of myself, as tlie Brothers here rebuke in their vmnatural parent; in 
words more keen and dajj^ier-liko tlian tliose whicli llamlct speaks to his 
mother. Such power has the passion of shame truly personated, not only 
to " strike guilty creatures unto the soul,'' but to " appal " even those that 
are " free." 



182 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Moth. I hope you will not so. 

Cast. Hope you I will not ? 
Tliat's not the liope you look to be saved in. 

Moth. Truth, but it is. 

Cast. Do not deceive yoursolt'. 
I am as you, e'en out of marble wrought. 
What would you now : are ye not pleas'd yet with me? 
You shall not wish me to be more lascivious, 
Than I intend to be. 

Moth. Strike not me cold. 

Cast. How often have you charg'd me on your blessing 
To be a cursed woman ! when you knew 
Your blessing had no force to niako me lewd, 
\ ou laid your curse upon me ; that did more : 
The mother's curse is heavy ; where that fights, 
Sons set in storm and daughters lose their lights. 

Moth. Ciood child, dear maid, if there be any spark 
Oi iioavenly intellectual light witliin tliee, 

let my breath revive it to a llam(\ 

Put not all out with woman's wilful follies. 

1 am re cover *d of that foul disease 

That haunts too many mothers ; kind, forgive me, 
Make mo not sick in h-^alth ! if tlien 
My words prevail "d, ^^"ilen ihey were wickedness. 
Flow nmch more now, when they are just and good ! 

Cast. 1 wonder what you mean ; are not you she, 
For whose infect persuasions, I could scarce 
Kneel out my prayers ; and had nmch ado, 
In tluee hours' reading, to untwist so much 
Of tlie black serpent, as you wound about me ! 

Moth. 'Tis unfruitful held, tedious, to repeat what's past. 
I'm iKTw your present mother. 

Cast. Pish, now 'tis tix) late. 

Moth. Bethink again, thou know'st not wliat thou say'st. 

Cast. jNo ! deny advancement ! treasure ! the duke's son ! 

Moth. O see, I spoke tho>c words, and now thoy poi.^jon me. 
What will the deed do then ? 
Advancement! true ; as liigh as shame ran pitch ! 



THE UEVENCiKK-S TRAGEDY. i83 



For treasure : who e'er knew a Harlot rich ? 

Or couhl build by the purchase of her sin 

An liospital to keep their bastards in ? 

Tli(> tiuko's son ! oil ; when women are young courtiers, 

Tiiey arc sure to be old beg<;ars. 

To know the miseries most harlots taste, 

Thou'dst wish tiiyself unborn when thou'rt unchaste. 

Cast. O mother, let me twine about your neck. 
And kiss you till my soul melt on your lips ; 
I did but this to try you. 

^fot/l. O speak truth. 

Cast. Indeed I did not ; for no tongue hath force 
To alter me from honest : 

If maidens would, men's words could have no power; 
A virgin's honor is a crystal tower, 
Which being weak is guarded with good spirits ; 
Until she basely yields, no ill inherits. 

Moth. O hapiw child ! faith, and thy birth, hath saved me, 
'Mongst thousand daughters, happiest of all otliers ; 
[iuy thou a glass for maiils, and I for mothers. 

Evil lirjiorl after Death. 
What is it to have 
A flattering false insculption on a tomb. 
And in men's hearts rcproaeli t the 'bowel'd corps 
May be sear'd in, but (with free tongue I speak) 
The faults of great men through their sear-clothes break. 

liastards. 
Uli what a grief 'tis that a man should live 
But onee in the world, and thou to live a Bastard ? 
The curse of the womb, the tliief of nature, 
Uegot against th(^ seventh commandment, 
I fall' dumn'd in the ct)nception by the justice 
Of tliiit inil)ril)ed everlasting law. 

Too nice respects in Courtship. 
Ceremony has made many fools. 
It is as easy wav unto a duchess 



184 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

As to a hatted dame, if her love answer : 
But that by timorous honors, pale respects, 
Idle degrees of fear, men make their ways 
Hard of themselves. 



THE DEVIL'S LAW CASE; OR, WHEN WOMEN GO TO LAW, 
THE DEVIL IS FULL OF BUSINESS. A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY 
JOHN WEBSTER. 

Contarino challenges Ereole to fight him for the possession of Jolenta, 
whom thei/ both love. 

Con. Sir ; my love to you has proclaim'd you one, 
Whose word was still led by a noble thought. 
And that thought followed by as fair a deed : 
Deceive not that opinion : we were students 
At Padua togetiier, and have long 
To the world's eye shown like friends. 
Was it hearty on your part to me ? 

Ere. Unfained. 

Con. You are false 
To the good thought I held of you ; and now, 
Join the worst part of man to you, your malice, 
To upliold that falsehood. Sacred innocence 
Is fled your bosom. Signer, I must tell you ; 
To draw the picture of unkindness truly. 
Is to express two that have dearly loved. 
And iiiUn at variance. "Tis a wonder to me. 
Knowing my interest in the fair Jolenta, 
That you should love her. 

Ere. Compare her beauty anil my youth together, 
And you will find the lair ctleets of love 
No miracle at all. 

Con. Yes, it will prove 
Prodigious to you : I must stay your voyage. 

Ere. Your warrant must be mighty. 

Con. 'Tis a seal 



THE DEVIL'S LAW CASE. 185 



From heaven to do it, since you'd ravish from me 

What's there intitled mine ; and yet I vow, 

By tlio essential front of spotless virtue, 

I have compassion of both our youths : 

To approve w hioh, I have not tane the way 

Like an Italian, to cut your tliroat 

By practice that had giv'n you now for dead 

And never frown'd upon you. 

You must fight with me. 

Ere. I will, Sir. 

Con. And instaiUly. 

Ere. I will haste before you. Point whither. 

Con. Why, you speak nobly ; and, for this fair dealing, 
Were the rich jewel (which we vary for) 
A thing to be divided, by my life, 
I Mould be well content to give you half: 
But since 'tis vain to think wc can be friends, 
Tis needful one of us be tane away 
From being the other's enemy. 

Ere. Yet, methinks, 
This looks not like a quarrel. 

Con. Not a quarrel ! 

Ere. You have not apparelled your fury well ; 
It goes too plain, like a scholar. 

Con. It is an ornament, 
Makes it more terrible ; and you shall find it 
A weighty injury, and attended on 
By discreet valor ; because I do not strike you, 
Or give you the lie (such foul preparatives 
Would show like the stale injury of wine) 
I reserve my rage to sit on my sword's piont; 
Which a great quantity of your best blood 
Can't satisfy. 

Ere. You promise well to yourself. 
Shall 's have no seconds ? 

Con. None, for fear of prevention. 

Ere. The length of our weapons 

Co7i. We'll fit them by the way : 



186 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



So whether our time calls us to live or die, 
Let us do both like noble gentlemen, 
And true Italians. 

Ere. For that, let me embrace you. 

Con. Methinks, being an Italian, I trust you 
To come somewhat too near me : 
But your jealousy gave that embrace, to try 
If I were arm'd ; did it not ? 

Ere. No, believe me. 
1 take your heart to be sufficient proof 
Without a privy coat : and, for my part, 
A tatfaty is all the shirt of mail 
I am ann'd with. 

Con. You deal equally.* 

Sitting for a picture. 
Must you have my Picture ? 
You will enjoin me to a strange punishment. 
With what a compell'd face a woman sits 
While she is drawing l I have noted divers 
Either to fai'r smiles, or suck in the lips, 
To have a little mouth ; ruffle the cheeks. 
To have the dimple seen ; and so disorder 
The face with affectation, at next sitting 
It has not been the same : I have known others 
Have lost the entire fashion of their face 
In half an hour's sitting — in hot weather — 
The painting on their face has been so mellow, 
They have left the poor man harder work by half 
To mend the copy he wrought by : But indeed, 
If ever I would have mine drawn to the life, 
I would have a painter steal it at such a time 
I were devoutly kneeling at my prayers ; 
There is then a heavenly beauty in 't, the soul 
Moves in the superficies. 

* I have selected this scene as the model of a well managed and gentle- 
manlike diflerence. 



THE DEVIL'S LAW CASE. 1S7 

Honorable Employment. 
Oh, my lord, lie not idle : 
The chiefest action for a man of great spirit 
Is never to be out of action. We should think ; 
The soul was never put into the body, 
Which has so many rare and curious pieces 
Of mathematical motion, to stand still. 
Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds : 
In the trenches for the soldier ; in the wakeful study 
For the scholar ; in the furrows of the sea 
For men of our profession : of all which 
Arise and spring up honor. 

Selling of Land. 
I could wish 
That noblemen would ever live in the country, 
Rather than make their visits up to the city 
About such business. Noble houses 
Have no such goodly prospects any way 
As into their own land : the decay of that 
(Next to their begging church-land) is a ruin 
Worth all men's pity. 

Dirge in a Funeral Pageant. 

All the flowers of the spring 
Meet to perfume our burying : 
These have but their growing prime. 
And man does flourish but his time. 
Survey our progress from our birth ; 
We are set, we grow, we turn to earth. 
Courts adieu, and all delights, 
All bewitching appetites. 
Sweetest breath and clearest eye 
(Like perfumes) go out and die ; 
And consequently this is done. 
As shadows wait upon the sun. 
Vain the ambition of kings. 
Who .seek by trophies and dead things 



189 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



To leave a living name behind, 

And weave but nets to catch the wind. 



APPIUS AND VIRGINIA: A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN WEBSTER. 

^ppius, the Roman Deccmmr, not beinf^ able to corrupt the Innocence of 
Virffiuiiu Dnvghfrr to Virf^inius the Jioman iieneral, and newly mar- 
ried to Jriliiix, a i/oiiitf:; and noble (ieiitlnnan ; to f/^et possession of her 
person, suborns one Clodius to claim her as the JJaii^hterof a deceased 
bondwoman of his, on the testimony of certain forf^ed U'ritinfi;s, pre- 
tended to be the Deposition of that J'Foman, on her deathbed, confess- 
ing that the Child had been spuriously passed upon Virginius for his 
own: the Cause is tried at Rome before Jtppius. 

Appius. Virginia. ViiuiiNiu.s, hrr Father. Icilius, her Hus- 
band. ^Senators of Home. Nurse and other Witnesses. 

Virg/nius. My Lords, believe not this spruce orator.* 
Had I but Ire'd iiini first, lie would have told 
As suiootii a talo on our side. 

Appius. Give us leave. 

Virginius. He deals in formal glosses, cunning shows, 
And cares not greatly which way the case goes. 
Examines I bescecli you this old woman. 
Who is the truest witness of" lier birth. 

Appius. Soft you, is siic your only witness? 

Virginius. Slie is, my Lord. 

Appius. Why, is it possible, 
Sucli a gri'at Lady in her time of child birth 
Should iiave no other witness but a nurse ? 

Virginius. For aught I know, the I'est are dead, my Lord. 

Appius. Dead ? no, my Lord, belike they were of counsel 
Witli your deceased Lady, and so shamed 
Twice to give color to so vile an act. 
Thou nurse, observe me, thy offence already 
Doth merit punishment above our censure ; 
Pull not more wliii)s upon thee. 

* Counsel for Clodius. 



APPIUS AND VIRGINIA. 189 



Nurse. I defy your whips, my. Lord. 
Appius. Command her silence, Lictors. 

Virginius. O injustice! you frown away my witness 
Is this law, is this uprightness ? 

Appius. Have you view'd the writings? 
This is a trick to make our slaves our heirs 
Beyond prevention. 

Virginius. Appius, wilt thou hear me ? 
You have slander'd a sweet Lady that now sleeps 
In a most noble monument. Observe me ; 
I would have tane her simple word to gage 
Before his soul or thine. 

Appius. That makes thee wretched. 
Old man, I am sorry for thee ; that thy love 
By custotn is grown natural, which by nature 
Should be an absolute lotliing. Note the sparrow ■ 
That having hatch'd a cuckow, when it sees 
Her brood a monster m her proper kind, 
Forsakes it, and with more fear shuns the nest 
Than she had care i' the s[)ring to have it drest. 
Here's witness, most sulllcieiit witness. 
Think you, my Lord, our laws are writ in snow, 
And that your breath can melt them ? 

Virginius. No, my Lord, 
We have not such hot livers : mark you that ? 

Virginia. Remember yet the gods, O Appius; 
Who have no part in this. Thy violent lust 
Shall like the biting of th' invenom'd asplck, 
Steal thoe to hell. So subtle are thy evils ; 
In life they'll seem good angels, in death devils. 

Appius. Observe you not this scandal ? 

Icilius. Sir, 'tis none. 
I'll show thy letters full of violent lust 
Sent to this Lady. 

Appius. My Lords, these are but dilatory shifts. 
Sirrah, I know you to the very heart, 
And I '11 observe you. 

Jcilius. Do, but do it with justice. 



190 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Clear thyself first, O Appius, ere thou judge 
Our imperfections rashly, for we wot 
The oflice of a justice is perverted quite 
When one thief hangs another. 

1. Senator. You are too bold. 

Appius. Lictor, take charge of him. 

Icilius. 'Tis very good. 
Will no man view these papers,* what not one ? 
Jove, thou hast found a rival upon earth, 
His nod strikes all men dumb. 
My duty to you. 

The ass that carried Isis on his back. 
Thought that the superstitious people kneel 'd 
To give his dulness humble reverence 
If thou tliiidvst so, proud judge, [ let thee see 
I bend \ )vv to thy gown but not to thee. 

Virginius. There's one in hold already. Noble youth j 
Fetters grace one, being worn for speaking truth. 
I'll lie with thee, I swear, though in a dungeon. 
The injuries you do us we shall pardon : 
But it is just, tiie wrongs wliicli we forgive 
The gods are charg'd therewith to see revenged. 

Appius. Your madness wrongs you : by my soul, I love you. 

Virginius. Thy soul ! 
O thy opinion, old Pythagoras : 
Whitlier, O whither should thy black soul fly, 
Into what ravenous bird, or beast most vile ? 
Only into a weeping crocodile. 
Love me ! 

Tiiou lov'st ine, Appius, as the earth loves rain, 
Only to swallow it. 

Appius. Know you the place you stand in ? 

Virginius. I'll speak freely. 
Good men, too much trusting their innocence, 
Do not b(^take them to tliat just defence 
Which gods and nature gave tliem ; but even wink 
In the black tempest, and so fondly sink. 
* The Forgery. 



DUCHESS OF MALFY. IQt 



Appiiis. Let us proceed to sentence. 

Virginius. Ere you speak, 
One parting farewell let nie borrow of you 
To take of my Virginia. 

Appms. Pray, take your course. 

Virginius. Farewell, my sweet Virginia : never, never 
Shall I taste fruit of the most blessed hope 
I had in thee. Let me forget the thought 
Of thy most pretty infancy : when first, 
Returning from the wars, I took delight 
To rock thee in my target ; when my girl 
Would kiss her father in his burganct 
Of glittering steel hung 'bout his armed neck. 
And, viewing the bright metal, smile to see 
Another fair Virginia smile on thee ; 
When I first taught thee how to go, to speak ; 
And, when my wounds have smarted) I have supg, 
With an unskilful yet a willing voice. 
To bring my girl asleep. O my Virginia ; 
When we begun to bv, begun our woes; 
Increasing still, as dying life still grows. 
Thus I surrender her into the court 
Of all the gods. [Kills her. 

And see, proud Appius, see ; 
Althougli not justly, I have made her free. 
And if thy lust with this act be not fed, 
Bury her in thy bowels now she's dead. 



THE TRAGEDY OF THE DUCHESS OF MALFY. BY JOHN 
WEBSTER, 

T%e Duchess of Malfy marries Antonio, her Steward. 

Duchess. Cariola, her Maid. 
Duchess. Is Antonio come ? 
Cariola. He attends you. 
Duch. Good dear soul, 



19i ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Leave me : but place thyself behind the arras, 

Where thou rtiayst overhear us : wish me good speed, 

For I am going into a wilderness, 

Where I shall find nor path nor friendly clue 

To be my guide. [Cariola vxiihdraws. 

Antonio enters. 

1 sent for you, sit down. 

Take pen and ink and write. Are you ready ? 

Ant. Yes. 

Duch. What did I say ? 

Ant. That I should write somewhat. 

Duch. Oh, I remember. 
After these triumphs and this large expense 
It's fit, like thrifty husbands, we inquire 
What's laid up for to-morrow. 

Ant. So please your beauteous excellence. 

Duch. Beauteous indeed ! I thank you ; I look young 
For your sake. You have tane my cares upon you. 

Ant. I'll fetch your grace the particulars of your revenue and 
expense. 

Duch. Oh, you're an upright treasurer : but you mistook, 
For when I said I meant to make inquiry 
What's laid up for to-morrow, I did mean 
What's laid up yonder for me. 

Ant. Where ? 

Duch. In heaven. 
I'm making my will (as 'tis fit princes should) 
In perfect memory ; and I pray, sir, tell me. 
Were not one better make it smiling, thus. 
Than in deep groans and terrible ghastly looks, 
As if the gifts we parted with procur'd 
That violent distraction ? 

Ant. Oh, much better. 

Duch. If I had a husband now, this care were quit. 
But I intend to make you overseer ; 
What good deed shall we first remember, say ? 

Ant. Begin with that first good deed, began in the world 



DUCHESS OF MALFY. 193 

After man's creation, the sacrament of marriage. 
I'd have you first provide for a good husband ; 
Give him all. 

Diich. All! 

Ant. Yes, your excellent self. 

Duch. In a winding sheet ? 

Ant. In a couple. 

Duch. St. Winifred, that were a strange will. 

Ant. 'Twere stranger if there were no will in you 
To marry again. 

Duch. What do you think of marriage ? 

Ant. I take it, as those that deny purgatory ; 
It locally contains or heaven or hell, 
There's no third place in 't. 

Duch. How do you affect it ? 

Ant. My banishment feeding my melancholy, 
Would often reason thus. 

Duch. Pray, let us hear it. 

Ant. Say a man never marry, nor have children, 
What takes that from him ? only the bare name 
Of being a father, or the weak delight 
To see the little wanton ride a cock-horse 
Upon a painted stick, or hear him chatter 
Like a taught starling. 

Duch. Fie, fie, what's all this ? 
One of your eyes is blood-shot ; use my Ring to 't. 
They say 'tis very sovran, 'twas my wedding ring, 
And I did vow never to part with it 
But to my second husband. 

Ant. You have parted with it now. 

Duch. Yes, to help your eye-sight. 

Ant. You have made me stark blind. 

Duch. How? 

Ant. There is a saucy and ambitious devil. 
Is dancing in this circle. 

Duch. Remove him. 

Ant. How ? 

Duch. There needs small conjuration, when your finger 

PART J. 14 



194 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

May do it ; thus : is it fit ? 

\_ She puts the ring on his finger. 

Ant. What said j'ou ? {He kneels. 

Duch, Sir! 
This goodly roof of yours is too low built ; 
I cannot stand upright in 't nor discourse, 
Without I raise it higher : raise yourself; 
Or, if you please my hand to help you : so. 

Ant. Ambition, Madam, is a great man's madness, 
That is not kept in chains and close-pent rooms, 
But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girt 
With the wild noise of prattling visitants. 
Which makes it lunatick beyond all cure. 
Conceive not I'm so stupid, but I aim 
Whereto your favors tend : but he's a fool 
That, being a cold, would thrust his hands in the fire 
To warm them. 

Duch. So, now the ground 's broke, 
You-iiiay discover what a wealthy mine 
T make you Lord of. 

Ant. O my unworthiness. 

Duch. You were ill to soil yourself. 
This darkning of your worth is not like that 
Which tradesmen use in tiie city ; their false lights 
Are to rid bad wares otl": and I must tell you, 
If you will know where breathes a complete man 
(I speak it without flattery) turn your eyes. 
And progress through yourself. 

Ant. Were there nor heaven nor hell, 
I should be honest : I have long serv'd virtue, 
And never tane wages of her. — 

Duch. Now she pays it. 
The misery of us that are born great ! 
We are forc'il to woo, because none dare woo us : 
And as a tyrant doubles with his words. 
And fearfully equivocates : so wc. 
Are forced to express our violent passions 
In riddles and in dreams, and leave the path 



DUCHESS OF MALFY. 195 



Of simple virtue, which was never made 

To seem the thing it is not. Go, go, brag 

You have left me lieartless ; mine is in your bosom ; 

I hope 'twill multiply love there ; you do tremble ; 

Make not your heart so dead a piece of flesh, 

To fear more than to love me ; Sir, be confident. 

What is it distracts you ? This is flesh and blood, Sir, 

'Tis not the figure cut in alabaster. 

Kneels at my husband's tomb. Awake, awake, man. 

I do here put off all vain ceremony. 

And only do appear to you a young widow : 

I use but half a blush in 't. 

Ant. Truth speak for me ; 
I will remain the constant sanctuary 
Of your good name. 

Duch. I thank you, gentle love ; 
And 'cause you shall not come to me in debt 
(Being now my Steward) here upon your lips 
I sign your quietus est : this you should have begg'd now. 
I have seen children oft eat sweetmeats thus, 
As fearful to devour them too soon. 

Ant. But, for your brothers — 

Duch. Do not think of them. 
All discord, without this circumference, 
Is only to be pitied, and not fear'd : 
Yet, should they know it, time will easily 
Scatter the tempest. 

Ant. These words should be mine. 
And all the parts you have spoke ; if some part of it 
Would not have savor'd flattery. 

[Cariola comes forward. 

Duch. Kneel. 

Ant. Hah! 

Duch. Be not amaz'd ; this woman's of my council. 
I have heard lawyers say, a contract in a chamber 
Per verba prcesenti is absolute marriage ; 
Bless heaven this sacred Gordian, which let violence 
Never untwine. 



196 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Ant. And may our sweet affections, like the spheres, 
Be still in motion. 

Duch. Quickening, and make 
The like soft music. 

Car. Whetlier the spirit of greatness, or of woman, 
Reign most in lier, I know not ; but it shows 
A fearful madness : I owe her much of pity. 

The Duchess's marriage with Antonio being discovered, her brother Fer- 
dinand shuts her up in a Prison, and torments her with various trials 
of studied Cruelty. By his command Bosola, the instrument of his 

Devices, shows her the Bodies of her Husband and Children countiT 
feited in Wax, as dead. 

Bos. He doth present you this sad spectacle. 
That now you know directly they are dead, 
Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve 
For that which cannot be recovered. 

Duch. Tlierc is not between heaven and earth one wish 
I stay for after tliis : it wastes me more 
Than were 't my picture fashion 'd out of wax, 
Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried 
In some foul dunghill ; and yond's an excellent property 
For a tyrant, wiiicii I would account mercy. 

Bos. What's tiiat ? 

Duch. If tliey would bind me to that lifeless trunk. 
And let me freeze to death. 

Bos. Come, you must live. 
► Leave tliis vain sorrow. 
Things being at the worst begin to mend. 
The Bee, 

When he hath sliot his sting into your hand. 
May then play with your eye-lid. 

Duch. Good comfortable fellow. 
Persuade a wretch tliat's broke upon the wheel 
To have all his bones new set ; intreat him live 
To be executed again. Who must dispatch me ? 
I account tiiis world a tedious theatre, 
For I do play a part in 't 'gainst niy will. 

Bos. Come, be of corhfort, I will save your life. 



DUCHESS OF MALFY. 197 

Duch. Indeed I liave not leisure to attend 
So small a business. 
I will go pray. — No : I '11 go curse. 

Bos. Ofie. 

Duch. I could curse the stars : 

Bos. O fearful. 

Duch. And those three smiling seasons of the year 
Into a Russian winter : nay, the world 
To its first chaos. 

Plagues (that make lanes through largest families) 
Consume them.* 
Let them like tyrants 

Ne'er be remcmber'd but for the ill they've done. 
Let all the zealous prayers of mortified 
Churchmen forget them. 

Let heaven a little while cease crowning martyrs, 
To punish them : go, howl them this ; and say, I long to bleed 
It is some mercy when men kill with speed. [Exit. 

Ftrdiminil (')iters. 

Ferd. Excellent, as I would wish : she's plagued in art. 
These presentations are but fram'd in wax, 
By the curious master in that quality 
Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them 
For true substantial bodies. 

Bos. Why do you do this ? 

Ferd. To bring her to despair. 

Bos. Faith, end here ; 
And go no further in your cruelty. 
Send her a penitential garment to put on 
Next to her delicate skin, and furnish her 
With beads and prayer books. 

Ferd. Damn her ; that body of her's, 
Mobile that my blood ran pure in 't, was more worth 
Than that, which thou would'st comfort, call'd a soul. 
I'll send her masques of common courtezans, 
Have her meat served up by bawds and rufnans, 

• Her Brothers. 



198 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



And ('cause she'll need be mad) I am resolv'd 
To remove forth the common hospital 
All the mad folk, and place them near her lodging : 
There let 'em practise together, sing, and dance, 
And act their gambols to the full o' the moon. 

She is kept waking with noises of Madmen ; and, at last, is strangled i 
common Executioners. 

Duchess. Cariola. 

Duch. What hideous noise was that ? 

Car. 'Tis the wild consort 
Of madmen, Lady : which your tyrant brother 
Hath placed about your lodging : this tyranny 
1 think was never practis'd till this hour. 

Duch. Indeed I thank him ; nothing but noise and folly 
Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason 
And silence make me stark mad ; sit down, 
Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. 

Car. O 'twill increase your melancholy. 

Duch. Thou art deceived. 
To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. 
This is a prison ? 

Car. Yes : but thou shalt live 
To shake this durance off. 

Duch. Thou art a fool. 
The Robin-red-breast and the Nightingale 
^ever live long in cages. 

Car. Pray, dry your eyes. 
What think you of. Madam ? 

Duch. Of nothing : 
When I muse thus, 1 sleep. 

Car. Like a madman, with your eyes open ? 

Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one anothe 
\n the other world ? 

Car. Yes, out of question. 

Duch. O that it were possible we might 
But hold some two days conference with the dead. 
From them I should learn somewhat I am sure 



DUCHESS OF MALFY. 199 

I never' shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle ; 

I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. 

Th' heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass, 

The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad : 

I am acquainted with sad misery. 

As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar; 

Necessity makes me suffer constantly, 

And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now ? 

Car. Like to your picture in the gallery ; 
A deal of life in show, but none in practice : 
Or rather, like some reverend monument 
Whose ruins are even pitied. 

Duch. Yery proper : 
And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight, 
To behold my tragedy ; how now, 
What noise is that ? 

.4 Servant enters. 
Serv. I am come to tell you, 
Your brother hath intended you some sport. 
A great physician when the Pope was sick 
Of a deep melancholy, presented him 
With several sorts of madmen, which wild object 
(Being full of change and sport) forc'd him to laugh, 
And so th' imposthume broke : the selfsame cure 
The duke intends on you. 
Duch. Let them come in. 

Here follows a Dance of Madmen, unth Music answerable thereto: af' 
which Bosola {like an old Man) enters. 

Duch. Is he mad too ? 

Bos. I am come to make thy tomb. 

Duch. Ha : my tomb ? 
Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my deathbed : 
Gasping for breath : dost thou perceive me sick ? 

Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is 
insensible. 

Duch. Thou art not n»ad sure : dost kivow me ? 

Eos. Yes. ' • 



800 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Dtich. Wlio ani I ? 

Bos. Tliou art a box of wornisoed ; at best but a salvatory of 
green niuimny. What's this llesh ? a little crudded 
milk, lantastical puli-paste. Our bodies are weaker 
than those paper-prisons boys use to keep flies in, more 
contemptible ; since ours is to preserve earth-worms. 
Didst thou over see a lark in a cage ? Such is the soul 
in tlie body : this world is like her little turf of grass ; 
and the heaven p'er our heads like her looking-glass, 
only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small com- 
pass of our prison. 

Duch. Am not 1 thy duchess ? 

Bos. Thou art some great woman sure, for riot begins to sit on 
thy forehead (clad in grey hairs) twenty years sooner 
than on a merry milk-maid's. Thou sleepest worse, than 
if a mouse should be forced to take up her lodging in a 
cat's ear : a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it 
lie with thee would cry out, as if thou wert the more 
unquiet bedfellow. 

Ditch. I am Duchess of Malfy still. 

Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken : 
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright; 
l>ut, look'd too near, have neitlier heat nor light. 

Duch. Thou art very plain. 

Bos. My trade is to Hatter the dead, not the living. I am a 
tomb-maker. 

Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb ? 

Bos. Yes. 

Duch. Let me be a little merry. 
Of what stutfwilt thou make it ? 

Bos. Nay, resolve me iirst ; of what fashion ? 

Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical in our death-bed ? 
Do we atlect fashion in tlie grave ? 

Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not 
lie as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven : but 
with their hands under their cheeks (as if they died of 
the tooth-ache^ : they are not •carved witii their eyes 
fixed upon tin stars ; but, as tlieir minds were wholly 



DUCHESS OF MALKY. 201 

bent upon tlio avoiKI, tlic same way they seom to turn 
their faces. 

Dnch. Let uie know I'uUy therefore the eilbct 
Of this thy dismal preparation, 
This talk, fit for a charnel. 

Bo.s-. Now 1 shall. [A Coffm, Cords, and a Bell, produced. 
Here is a present from your priniiely brothers ; 
And tnay it arrive welcome, lor it brings 
Last benefit, last sorrow. 

Diich. Let me see it, 
I iiave so mueii obedience in my blood, 
I wish it in their veins to do them i:;ood. 

Bos. This is your last presence chamber. 

Car. O my sweet lady. 

Duch. Peace, it aflii'ii^hts not me. 

Bos. I am tlie common bell-man, 
That usually is sent to condemn'd persons 
The ni;;ht before tliey sutler. 

Duch. Even now thou saidst, 
Thou wast a tomb-maker. 

Bos. 'Twas to ])riiig you 
By degrees to nK)rlifieation : Listen. 

Hark, now everything is still ; 

This screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, 

Call upon our dame aloud, 

And Itid her (juickly d'on her shroud. 

Much you liad of land and rent ; 

Your lengtii in clay's now eon)[)et('nt. 

A long war disturb'd your mind ; 

Here your perfect peace is sign'd. 

Of what is 't fools n\ake such vain keeping? 

Sin, their conception ; their birth, weeping : 

Their life, a general mist of error, 

Their death, a liideous storm of terror. 

Strew your hair with powders sweet, 

D'on clcnii linen. i)athe vonr feet; 



202 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS 

And (the foul fiend more to check) 
A crucifix let bless your neck. 
'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day : 
End your groan, and come away. 

Car. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers : alas ! 
What will you do with my lady ? Call for help. 

Duch. To whom ; to our next neighbors ? They are mad folks. 
Farewell, Cariola. 

I pray tliee look thou giv'st my little boy 
Some syrup for his cold ; and let the girl 
Say her pray'rs ere she sleep.- — Now what you please ; 
What death ? 

Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners. 

Duch. I forgive them. 
The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, 
Would do as much as they do. 

Bos. Doth not death fright you ? 

Ditch. Who would be afraid on 't. 
Knowing to meet such excellent company 
In th' other world. 

Bos. Yet methinks. 
The manner of your death should much afflict you ; 
This cord should terrify you. 

Duch. Not a whit. 
What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut 
With diamonds ? or to be smothered 
With cassia ? or to be shot to death with pearls ? 
I know, death hath ten thousand several doors 
For men to take their exits ; and 'tis found 
They go on such strange geometrical hinges. 
You may open them both ways: any way: (for heav'n sake) 
So I were out of your whispering : tell my brotlie-s, 
That I perceive, death (now Pm well awake) 
Best gift is, they can give or I can take. 
I would fain put off my last woman's fault ; 
I'd not be tedious to you. 
Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength 
Must pull down heaven upon me. 



DUCHESS OF MALFY. 203 

Yet stay, heaven gates are not s6 highly arch'd 

As princes' palaces ; they that enter there 

Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death, 

Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep, 

Go tell my brothers ; when I am laid out. 

They then may feed in quiet. [They strangle her kneeling. 

Ferdinand enters. 

Ferd. Is she dead ? 

Bos. She is what you would have her. 
Fix your eye here. 

Ferd. Constantly. 

Bos. Do you not weep ? 
Other sins only speak ; murder shrieks out. 
The element of water moistens the earth, 
But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens. 

Ferd. Cover her face : mine eyes dazzle : she died young. 

Bos. I think not so : her infelicity 
Seem'd to have years too many. 

Ferd. She and I were twins ; 
And should I die this instant, I had lived 
Her time to a minute.* 

• All the several parts of the dreadful apparatus with which the Duchess's 
death is usher'd in^ are not more remote from the conceptions of ordinary 
vengeance, than the strange character of suffering which they seem to bring 
upon their victims, is beyond the imagination of ordinary poets. As they 
are not like inflictions of this life, so her language seems not of this world. 
She has lived among horrors till she is become " native and endowed unto 
that element." She speaks the dialect of despair, her tongue has a snatch 
of Tartarus and the souls in bale. — What are " Luke's iron crown," the 
brazen bull of Perillus, Procrustes' bed, to the waxen images which coun- 
terfeit death, to tlie wild masque of madmen, the tomb-maker, the bell- 
man, the living i>erson's dirge, tiie mortification by degrees ! To move a 
liorror skilfuUv, to touch a soul to the quick, to lay upon fear as much as it 
can boar, to wean and weary a life till it is ready to drop, and then step in 
with mortal instruments to take its last forfeit : this only a Webster can do. 
Writers of an inferior genius may " upon horror's head horrors accumulate," 
but they cannot do this. They mistiike quantity for (jua-lity ; they " terrify 
babes with painted devils," but they know not how a soul is capable of 
beinff moved ; their terrors want dignity, their affrightments are without 



204 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Single Life. 

fie upon this single life : forego it. 

We read how Daphne, for lier peevish flight, 
Became a fruitless bay-tree : Syrinx turn'd 
To the pale empty reed : Anaxarate 
Was frozen into marble ; whereas those 
Which married, or prov'd kind unto their friends, 
Wer(>, by a gracious influence, trans-shap'd 
Into the olive, pomgranate, mulberry; 
Became flowers, precious stones, or eminent stars. 

Fnb/r. 
Upon a time. Reputation, Love, and Death, 
Would travel o'er the world : and 'twas concluded 
That tlu'y should part, ami take tiiree several ways. 
])ealli told them, they should linil him in great battles, 
Or cities plagued with plagues : Love gives them counsel 
To inquire for him 'mongst unambitious shepherds, 
Where dowries were not talked of; and sometimes, 
'Mongst quiet kindred that had nothing U^ft 
By their dead parents : stay, quoth Rc^putation ; 
Do not forsake me, for it is my nature, 
If once I part from any man I meet, 

1 am never found again. 

.dnotfiet: 
A Salmon, as she swam unto the sea. 
Mot with a Dog-fish ; who encounters her 
With his rough language ; why art thou so bold 
To mix thyself with our high state of floods ? 
Being no eminent courtier, but one 
That for tl>e calmest and fresh time of tlie year 
])ost live in shallow rivers, rank'st thyself 
With silly Smelts and Shrimps : — and darest thou 
Pass by our Dog-sliip without reverence ? 
U (quoth the Salmon) sister, be at peace, 
Thank .hqiiter we both have past the net. 
Our value never can be truly known, 
Till in tlie fisher's basket we be shown : 



THK VVIliri', l^l'.Vir.. 2U5 



In tlie market then my price may be the higher ; 

Even when I am nearest to the coolc and fire. 

So to ffr(>at men the moral may be stretclied : 

Men oft are valued high when tliey are most wretched. 



THE WHITE DEVIL: OR, VITTORIA COROMBONA, A LADY OF 
VENICE. A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN WEBSTER.* 

71ie arrni^nmnit of Vittoria.— Paulo Giordano Ursini,Duke of Jirarhi- 
ano,for the lovr of I ''if tori a C'oromboiia, a Venetian Lady, and at her 
sufr^estion, caiise.t her hunliand C'amillo to be mnrdered. Suspicion 
falls upon Vitlorin, who is tried at Home, on a double rhnrf^e of Mur- 
der and Incontinence, in the presence of Cardinal Monticelso, Cousin 
to the deceased Camillo ; Prancisco de Medicis, Brother-in- Tmw to 
Brachiano ; the Jlmbassadors of Prance, Spain, England, 8fc. Jls the 
arraignment is beginning!;, the Duke coiifidently enters the Court. 

Mon. Forbear, my Lord, here is no place assign'd you : 
Thi.s busines.s, by hi.s holiness, is left 
To our exaiiiinutioii. 

• The Autlior's Dedication (o tlii.s Pliiy is so iiiodcst, yi'l so conscious of 
self-merit witlial, he speaks so frankly of tii(! descrvings of others, and by 
im|)lication insinuates his own deserts so ingenuously, tliat I cannot forbear 
insertinir it, as a specimen how a man may ])raise hiinsrlf {(raceniHy an(l 
commend others without suspicion of envy. 
" To the Reader. 
" In j)ublisliing this Tragedy, I do Ijut challenge to myself liiul. libt^rty 
which other men have taken before me ; not that I adect iniiisi' by it, for 
nos hicc iiovimus esse nihil ; only since it was acted in so open and black a 
theatre, that it wantftd (tiiat which is the only grace and setting out of a 
tragedy) a full and under.standing auditory; and that, since that time I have 
noted most of the people that come to that play-house resemble tiiose igno- 
rant asses (who, visiting stationers' shops, their use is not to inquire 
for good books, but new books) I present it to the general view with this 
confidence, 

JVec rhoncos metues maligno7um 

JSTec scombris tunicas dabis moleslus. 

If it be objected this is no true dramatic poem, I shall easily confess it, non 
potes in nugas dicere plura meas, ipse ego quarn dixi ; willingly, and not 
ignorantly, have I faulted. For should a rnan pri!scnt, to such an auditory, 
the moit sententious tragedy that ever was written, observing all the critical 



206 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Bra. May it thrive with you. 

Fra. A chair there for his lordship. [Lays a rich gown under him 

Bra. Forbear your kindness ; an unbidden guest 
Should travel as Dutch women go to church, 
Bear their stool with them. 

Mon. At your pleasure, Sir, 
Stand to the table, gentlewoman. — ^Now, Signior, 
Fall to your plea. 

Lawyer. Domine judex converte oculos in hanc pestem mulierum 
corruptissiniam. 

Vit. What 'she? 

Fra. A lawyer, that pleads against you. 

Vit. Pray, my Lord, let him speak his usual tongue, 
1 '11 make no answer else. 

Fra. Why, you understand Latin. 

laws, as height of style, and gravity of person, enrich it with the sententious 
cliorus, and, as it were, enliven death, in the passionate and weighty Nun- 
tius : yet after all this divine rapture, O dura tnessorum ilia, the breath 
that comes from the uncapable multitude is able to poison it; and ere it be 
acted, let the author resolve to fix to every scene this of Horace : 

H(Bc hodie porcis comedenda relinques. 

" To those who report I was a long time in finishing this Tragedy, 
I confess, I do not write with a goose-quill wing'd with two feathers : and 
if they will needs make it my fault, I must answer them with that of Euri- 
pides to Alcestides, a tragic writer : Alcestides objecting that Euripides 
had only, in three days, composed three verses, whereas himself had written 
three hundred : Thou tell'st truth (quoth he) ; but here's the difference, 
thine shall only be read for three days, whereas mine shall continue 
three ages. 

" Detraction is the sworn friend to ignorance: for mine own part, I have 
ever truly clierish'd my good opinion of other men's worthy labors, espe- 
cially of that full and heighten'd stile of Master Chapman, the labor'd and 
understanding works of Master Jonson, the no less worthy composures of 
the both worthiiy excellent Master Beaumont and Master Fletcher; and 
la.stly (without wrong last to be named), the right happy and copious 
industry of Master Shakspeare, Master Decker, and Master Heywood, wish- 
ing what I write may be read by their light ; ju-otesting, that in the strength 
of mine own judgment, I know them so worthy, that tho' I rest silent ia 
my own work, yet to most of theirs, I dare (without flattery) to fix that ot 
Martial : nnn norunt h(cr monumentn mnri." 



THE WHITE DEVIL. 207 

Vit. I do, Sir, but amongst this auditory 
Which come to hear my cause, the half or more 
May he ignorant in 't». 

Mon. Go on, Sir. 

Vit. By your favor, 
I will not have my accusation clouded 
In a strange tongue : all this assembly 
Shall hear what you can charge me with. 

Fra. Signior, 
You need not stand on 't much ; pray, change your language. 

Mon. Oh, for God's sake ! gentlewoman, your credit 
Shall be more famous by it. 

Law. Well then have at you. 

Vit. I am the mark, Sir, I '11 give aim to you. 
And tell you how near you shoot. 

Law. Most literated judges, please your lordships 
So to connive your judgments to the view 
Of this debauch'd and diversivolent woman : 
Who such a concatenation 
Of mischief hath effected, that to extirp 
The memory of it, must be the consummation 
Of her and her projections. 

Vit. What 's all this ? 

Law. Hold your peace ! 
Exorbitant sins must have exulceration. 

Vit. Surely, my Lords, this lawyer hath swallowed 
Sorfie apothecaries bills, or proclamations ; 
And now the hard and undige.stible words 
Come up like stones we use give hawks for physic. 
Why, this is Welch to Latin. 

Laio. My Lords, the woman 
Knows not her tropes, nor is perfect 
In the academick derivation 
Of grammatical elocution 

Fra. Sir, your pains 
Shall be well spared, and your deep eloquence 
Be worthily applauded among those 
Which understand vou. 



208 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Law. My good Lord. 

Fra. Sir, 
Put up your papers in your fustian bag ; 

[Francisco speaks this as in scorn. 
Cry niorcy, Sir, 'tis buckram, and accept 
My notion of your Icarn'd verbosity. 

Law. 1 most graduatically thank your lordship; 
I shall have use for them elsewhere. 

Mon. {to ViTTOKiA.) I shall be plainer with you, and paint out 
Your lollies in more natural red and white. 
Than tliat upon your cheek. 

Vit. O you mistake. 
You raise a blood as noble in this cheek 
As ever was your mother's. 

Mon. I must spare you, till proof cry whore to that. 
Observe this creature hei'e, my honor'd Lords, 
A woman of a most prodigious spirit. 

Vit. My honorable Lord, 
It doth not suit a reverend Cardinal 
To play the Lawyer thus. 

Mon. Oh your trade instructs your language. 
You see, my Lords, what goodly fruit she seems, 
Yet like those apples travellers report 
To grow where Sodom and Gomorrah stood, 
I will but touch her, and you straight shall see 
She '11 fall lo soot and ashes. 

Vit. Your invenom'd apothecary should do"t. • 

Mon. I am resolved. 
Were there a second paradise to lose. 
This d(n'il would betray it. 

Vit. O poor charity, 
Thou art soMoiu I'ound in scarlet. 

Mon. Who knows not how, when several night by night 
Iter gales wcn^ elioakt witii coaches, and her rooms 
Ontbrav'd tlie stars witii several kinds of lights; 
Wiien she did counterfeit a Prince's court 
In music, banquets, and most riotous surfeits; 
This whore forsooth was holy. 



TlIK Wliri'K UEVIL. ^ 20tt 



Vit. Ha ! whoro ? what 's that ? 
Mini. Shall 1 expound whore to you? sure I shall. 
I Ml give their pcrieet character. They are first, 
Sweetmeats which rot the eater : In man's nostrils 
Poison'd perfumes. They arc cozening alchyiny ; 
Shipwrecks in calmest weather. What are whores? 
Cold Russiiiii winters, that appear so barren, 
As if that nature had forgot llu; spring. 
They are the true material fire of hell. 
Worse than those tributes i' th' low countries paid, 
Exactions upon meat, drink, garments, sleep ; 
Ay oven on man's perdition, his sin. 
They are those brittle evidences of law, 
Which forfeit all a wretched man's estate 
For leaving out one syllable. What are whores ? 
They are those flattering bells have all one tune. 
At weddings and at funerals. Your ricii whores 
Are only treasuries by extortion fdl'd. 
And empty 'd by curs'd riot. They are worse. 
Worse than dead bodies, which are begg'd at th' gallows, 
And wrought upon by surgeons, to teach man 
Wherein he is imperfect. What 's a whore 1 
She 's like the guilt couiiterteited coin. 
Which, whosoe'er first stamps il, brings in trouble 
All that receive it. / 

Vit. This character 'scapes me. 

Mon. You, gentlewoman t 
Take from all beasts and from all minerals 
Their deadly poison — 

Vit. Well, what then ? 

Mon. I 'U tell thee ; 
I '11 find in ihee an apothecary's shop. 
To sam|)le them all. 

Fr. Emb. She hath lived ill. 

En. Emb. True, but the Cardinal 's too bitter, 

Mon. You know what whore is. Next the devil adult'ry, 
Enters the devil murder. 

PART 1. 15 



210 ^NGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Fra. Your unhappy husband 
Is dead. 

Vit. O he 's a happy husband, 
Now he owes Nature nothing. 

Fra. And by a vaulting engine. 

Mon. An active plot : 
He jumpt into his grave. 

Fra. What a prodigy was't, 
That from some two yards high, a slender man 
Should break his neck ? 

Mon. I' th' rushes! 

Fra. And what 's more, 
Upon the instant lose all use of speech, 
All vital motion, like a man had lain 
Wound up three days. Now mark each circumstance. 

Mon. And look upon this creature was his wife. 
She comes not like a widow : she comes arm'd 
With scorn and impudence : is this a mourning-habit ? 

Vit. Had I foreknown his death as you suggest, 
I would have bespoke my mourning. 

Mon. O you are cunning ! 

Vit. You shame your wit and judgment. 
To call it so ; what, is my just defence 
By him that is my judge call'd impudence ? 
Let me appeal then from this christian court 
To the uncivil Tartar. 

Mon. See, my lords, 
She scandals our proceedings. 

Vit. Humbly thus. 
Thus low, to the most worthy and respected 
Leiger embassadors, my modesty 
And woman-hood I tender ; but withall. 
So entangled in a cursed accusation. 
That my defence, of force, like Perseus, 
Must personate masculine virtue. To the point. 
Find me but guilty, sever head from body, 
We '11 part good friends : I scorn to hold my life 
At yours, or any man's intreaty, Sir. 



^ THE WHITE DEVIL. 211 

En. Emb. She hath a brave spirit. 

Mmi. Well, well, such counterfeit jewels 
Make true ones oft suspected. 

Vit. You are deceived ; 
For know, that all your strict combined heads, 
Which strike against this mine of diamonds. 
Shall prove but glassen hammers, they shall break. 
These are but feigned shadows of my evils. 
Terrify babes, my Lord, with painted devils ; 
I am past such needless palsy. For your names 
Of whore and murdress, they proceed from you, 
As if a man should spit against the wind 
The filth returns in 's face. 

Mon. Pray you, mistress, satisfy me one question : 
Who lodg'd beneath your roof that fatal night 
Your husband brake his neck ? 

Bra. That question 
Inforceth me break silence ; I was there. 

Mon. Your business ? 

Bra. Why, I came to comfort her. 
And take some course for settling her estate, 
Because I heard her husband was in debt 
To you, my Lord. 

Mon. He was. 

Bra. And 'twas strangely fear'd 
That you would cozen her. 

Mon. Who made you overseer ? 

Bra. Why, my charity, my charity, which should flow 
From every generous and noble spirit, 
To orphans and to widows. 

Mon. Your lust. 

Bra. Cowardly dogs bark loudest! sirrah, priest, 

I'll talk with you hereafter. Do you hear ? 

The sword you frame of such an excellent temper, 
I'll sheath in your own bowels. 
There are a number of thy coat resemble 
Your common post-boy:-. 
Mon. Ha ! 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Bra. Your mercenary post-boys. 
Your letters carry truth, but 'tis your guise 
To fill your mouths with gross and impudent lies. 

Servant. My Lord, your gown. 

Bra. Thou liest, 'twas my stool. 
Bestow 't upon thy master, that will challenge 
The rest o' th' household stuff", for Brachiano 
Was ne'er so beggarly to take a stool 
Out of another's lodging : let him make 
Vallance for his bed on't, or demy foot-cloth 
For his most reverend moile. Monticelso, nemo me impune laces- 
sit. [Exit Brachiano. 

Mon. Your champion's gone. 

Vit. The wolf may prey the better. 

Fra. My Lord, there's great suspicion of the murder, 
But no sound proof who did it. For my part, 
I do not think she hath a soul so black 
To act a deed so bloody : if she have, 
As in cold countries husband-men plant vines, 
And with warm blood manure them, even so 
One summer she will bear unsavory fruit. 
And ere next spring wither both branch and root. 
The act of blood let pass, only descend 
To matter of incontinence. 

Vit. I discern poison 
Under your gilded pills. 

Mon. Now the Duke's gone I will produce a letter, 
Wherein twas plotted, he and you shall meet, 
At an apothecary's summer-house, 
Down by the river Tiber. View 't, my Lords ; 
Where after wanton bathing and *he heat 
Of a lascivious banquet. — I pray read it. — 
I shame to speak the rest. 

Vit. Grant I was tempted ; 
Temptation proves not the act : 

Casta est quam nemo rogavii. ^ 

You read his hot love to me, but you want 
My frosty answer. 



THE WHITE DEVIL. 213 



Mon. Frost i' th' dog-days ! strange ! 
Vit. Condemn you mc for that the Duke did love me ; 
So may you blame some fair and crystal river 
For that some melancholic distracted man 
Hath drown'd himself in 't. 
M(M. Truly drown'd, indeed. 
Vil. Sum up my faults, 1 pray, and you shall find, 
That beauty and gay clothes, a merry heart, 
And a good stomach to feast, are all, 
All the poor crimes that you can charge me with. 
In faith, my Lord, you might go pistol flies, 
The sport would be more noble. 
Mon. Very good. 

Vit. But take you your course, it seems you've begg'd me first. 
And now would fain undo me. I have houses, 
Jewels, and a poor remnant of crusadoes ; 
Would these would make you charitable. 

Mon. If the devil 
Did ever take good shape, behold his picture. 

Vit. You have one virtue left. 
You will not flatter me. 

Fra. Who brought this letter ? 
Vit. I am not compell'd to tell you. 
Mon. My Lord Duke sent to you a thousand ducats, 
The twelfth of August. 

Vit. 'Twas to keep your cousin* 
From prison, I paid use for 't. 

Mon. I rather think, 
'Twas interest for his lust. 

Vit. Who says so but yourself? if you be my accuser, 
Pray cease to be my judge ; come from the bench. 
Give in your evidence against me, and let these 
Be moderators. My Lord Cardinal, 
Were your intelligencing ears as loving. 
As to my thoughts, had you an honest tongue, 
I would not care though you proclaim'd them all. 
Mon. Go to, go to. 

* Her husband Camillo, who was cousin to Monticelso. 



214 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



After your goodly and vain-glorious banquet, 
I '11 give you a choak-pear. 

Vit. Of your own grafting ? 

Mon. You were born in Venice, honorably descended 
From the Vittelli ; 'twas my cousin's fate, 
111 may I name the hour, to marry you ; 
He bought you of your father. 

Vit. Ha ! 

Mon. He spent there in six months 
Twelve thousand ducats, and (to my knowledge) 
Receiv'd in dowry with you not one julio. 
'Twas a hard penny-worth, the ware being so light. 
I yet but draw the curtain, now to your picture : 
You came from thence a most notorious strumpet, 
And so you have continued. 

Vit. My Lord ! 

Mon. Nay hear me, 
You shall have time to prate. My Lord Brachiano — 
Alas ! I make but repetition, 
Of what is ordinary and Ryalto talk, 
And ballated, and would be plaid o' th' stage 
But that vice many times finds such loud friends. 
That preachers are charm'd silent. 
Your public fault. 

Join'd to th' condition of the present time. 
Takes from you all the fruits of noble pity. 
Such a corrupted trial have you made 
Both of your life and beauty, and been styl'd 
No less an ominous fate, than blazing stars 
To Princes. Hear your sentence ; you are confin'd 
Unto a house of converts. 

Vit. A house of converts ! what's that ? 

Mon. A house of penitent whores. 

Vit. Do the Noblemen in Rome 
Erect it for their wives, that I am sent 
To lodge there ? 

Fra. You must have patience. 

Vit. I must first have vengeance. 



TilL: WHITE OEVIL. 21.'» 

I fain would know if you have your salvation 
By patent, that you proceed thus. 

Mon. Away with her, 
Take her hence. 

Vit. A rape ! a rape ! \ 

Mon. How ? 

Vit. Yes, you have ravish'd justice ; 
Forc'd her to do your pleasure. 

Mon. Fie, she 's mad ! 

Vit. Die with those pills in your most cursed maw, 
Should bring you health ! or while you set o' th' bench, 
Let your own spittle choak you ! 

Mon. She's turn'd fury. 

Vit. That the last day of judgment may so find you, 
And leave you the same Devil you were before ! 
Instruct me some good horse-leach to speak treason, 
For since you cannot take my life for deeds, 
Take it for words : O woman's poor revenge ! 
Which dwells but in the tongue. I will not weep. 
No ; I do scorn to call up one poor tear 
To fawn on your injustice ; bear me hence 
Unto this house of what's your mitigating title ? 

Mon. Of converts. 

Vit. It shall not be a house of convei'ts ; 
My mind shall make it honester to me 
Than the Pope's palace, and more peaceable 
Than thy soul, though thou art a Cardinal, 
Know this, and let it somewhat raise your spight. 
Through darkness diamonds spread their richest light.* 

* This White Devil of Italy sets off a bad cause so speciously, and pleada 
with such an innocence-resembling boldness, that w* seem to see that 
matchless beauty of her face which inspires such gay confidence into her ; 
and are ready to expect, when she has done her pleadings, that her very 
judges, her accusers, the grave ambassadors who sit as spectators, and all the 
court, will rise and make profier to defend her in spite of the utmost con- 
viction of her guilt ; as the shepherds in Don Quixote make proffer to 
follow the beautiful shepherdess Marcela " without reaping any profi out 
of her manifest resolution made there in their hearing." — 

So sweet and lovely does she make the shame. 
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, 
Does spot the beauty of her budding name '. 



21(5 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Marcello andFlamineo, Sons to Cornelia, having qtiar relied ; Flamineo 
slc.ys his brother Marcello, their mother being present. 

Cornelia. Marcello. 

Cer. I hear a whispering all about the court, 
You are to fight : who is your opposite ? 
"What is the quarrel ? 

Mar. 'Tis an idle rumor. 

Cor. Will you dissemble ? sure you do not well 
To fright me thus : you never look thus pale, 
But when you are most angry. I do charge you. 
Upon my blessing ; nay I'll call the Duke, 
And he shall school you. 

Mar. Publish not a fear, 
Which would convert to laughter : 'tis not so. 
Was not this crucifix my father's ? 

Cor. Yes. 

Mar. 1 have heard you say, giving my brother suck, 
He took the crucifix between his hands, 
And broke a limb off. 

Cor. Yes ; but "tis mended. 

Flamineo enters. 

Fla. I have brought your weapon back. 

[Flamineo rims Marcello througn. 
Cor. Ha, oh my horror ! 
Mar. You have brought it home, indeed. 
Cor. Help, oh he's murder'd ! 

Fla. Do you turn your gall up ? I'll to the sanctuary, 
And send a surgeon to you. \^Exit Flam. 

Hortensius {an Officer) enters. 

Hor. How, o' th' ground ? 

31ar. O mother, now remember what I told 
Of breaking off the crucifix. Farewell. 
There are some sins, which heaven doth duly punish 
In a whole family. This it is to rise 
By all dishonest means. Let all men know, 



THE WHITE DEVIL. 217 



That tree shall long time keep a steady foot, 
Whose branches spread no wider than the root. 
Cor. O my perpetual sorrow ! 
Hor. Virtuous Marcello ! 
He's dead. Pray leave him, lady : come, you shall. 

Cor. Alas ! he is not dead ; he's in a trance. 
Why, here's nobody shall get anything by his death. 
Let me call him again, for God's sake ! 
Hor. I would you were deceived. 
Cor. O you abuse me, you abuse me, you abuse me ! 
How many have gone away thus, for lack of 'tendance ! 
Rear up 's head, rear up 's head ; his bleeding inward will kill 
him. 
Hor. Yon see he is departed. 

Cor. Let me come to him ; give me him as he is ; if he be 
turn'd to earth, let me but give him one hearty kiss, and 
you shall put us both into one coffin. Fetch a looking- 
glass, see if his breath will not stain it ; or pull out 
some feathers from my pillow, and lay tliem to his lips : 
will you lose him for a little pains taking '? 
Hor. Your kindest office is to pray for him. 
Cor. Alas ! I would not pray for him yet. He may live to lay 
me i' th' ground, and pray for me, if you'll let me come 
to him. 

The Duke enters with Flamineo, and Page. 
Bra. Was this your handy-work ? 
Fla. It was my misfortune. 
Cor. He lies, he lies ; he did not kill him : these have kill'd 

him, that would not let him be better look'd to. 
Bra. Have comfort, my griev'd mother. 
Cor. O yon' screech-owl ! 
Hor. Forbear, good Madam. 
Cor. Let me go, let me go. 

[S/te runs to Flaminko 7oUh her knife draton, 
and coming to him, lets it fall. 
The God of heaven forgive thee. Dost not wonder 
I pray for thee ? I'll tell thee what's the reason ; 



218 ENCJLiSil DRAM.ATiC POETS. 



I have scarce breath to number twenty minutes ; 
I'd not spend that in cursing. Fare tiiee well : 
Half of thyself lies there : and may'st thou live 
To fill an hour-glass with his moulder'd ashes, 
To tell how thou should 'st spend the time to come 
In blest repentance. 

Bra. Mother, pray tell me 
How came he by his death ? wliat was the quarrel ? 

Co7'. Indeed, my younger boy presuin'd too much 
Upon his manhood, gave him bitter words, 
Drew his sword first ; and so, I know not how, 
For I was out of my wits, he fell with 's head 
Just in my bosom. 

Page. This is not true, Madam. 

Cor. I pr'ythee peace. 

One arrow 's graz'd already : it were vain 

To lose this, for that will ne'er be found again. 
****** 

****** 

Francisco describes to Flamineo the grirf of ( •ornelia a.t the 
funeral of Marcello. 

Your reverend Mother 
Is grown a very old woman in two hours. 
I found them winding of Marcello's corse ; 
And there is such a solemn melody, 
'Tvveen doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies : 
Such as old grandames, watching by tbe dead, 
Were wont to outwear the nights with ; that, believe me, 
I had no eyes to guide me forth the room. 
They were so o'ercharg'd with water. 

Fwiera/ Dirge for Marcel lo. 

[His mother sings it. 
Call for the Robin-red-breast and the Wren, 
Since o'er shady groves they hover, 
And with leaves and flowers do cover 
The friendless bodies of unburied men. 



THE WHITE DEVIL. 219 



Call unto his funeral dole 

The Ant, the Field-mouse, and tiie Mole, 

To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm, 

And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm ; 

But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, 

For with his nails he'll dig them up again.* 

Folded Thoughts. 
Come, come, my Lord, unite your folded thoughts, 
And let them dangle loose as a bride's hair. 
Your sister 's poison'd. 

Dying Princes. 
To see what solitariness is about dying Princes ! As heretofore 
they have unpeopled towns, divorced friends, and made 
great houses unhospitable ! so now, O justice ! where 
are their flatterers now ? flatterers are but the shadows 
of princes' bodies, the least thick cloud makes them 
invisible. 

JVatural Death. " 

O thou soft natural death ! that art joint twin 
To sweetest slumber ! — no rough-bearded Comet 
Stares on thy mild departure ; ihe dull Owl 
Beats not against thy casement ; the hoarse Wolf 
Scents not thy carrion. Pity winds thy corse, 
Whilst horror v\ aits on princes' 

Vow of Murder rebuked 

Miserable creature, 
If thou persist in this 'tis damnable. 
Dost thou imagine thou canst slide on blood, 
And not be tainted with a shameful fall ? 
Or like the black and melancholic yew-tree. 
Dost think to root thyself in dead men's graves 
And yet to prosper ! 

* I never s;-.\v anything like ihis Dlr^e, except ihe Ditty which reminds 
Ferdinand of his drowned father in the Tempest. As that is of the water, 
watery ; so this is of the earth, earthy. Both have that intenseness of fee' 
ing, which seems to resolve itself into the elements which it contempiatea. 



220 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Dying Man. 
See see how firmly he doth fix his eyes 
Upon the crucifix. 
Oh hold it constant. 

It settles his wild spirits : and so his eyes 
Melt into tears. 

Despair. 
O the cursed Devil, 
Which doth present us with all other sins 
Thrice candied o'er ; despair, with gall and stibium, 
Yet we carouse it off. 



END OF PABT I. 



TABLE OF REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. 



JOHN FORD. 

PAOX 

THE lover's melancholy 1 

THE ladies' trial 3 

love's sacrifice 4 

t>ERKI]>r WARBECK 1 

'tis pity she's A WHORE 10 

THE BROEEIV HEART l"? 

SAMT7EL DANIEL. 

Hymen's triumph 29 

FTJLKE GREVILLE. 

ALAH AM 34 

MUSTAPHA 45 

BEN. JONSON. 

THE CASE IS ALTERED 58 

POETASTER 60 

SEJANUS 70 

SAD SHEPHERD 72 

CATILINE 75 

NEW INN 7S 

ALCHEMIST 84 

VOLPON E Ql 

FRANCIS BEAUMONT. 

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 100 



vi PREFACE. 



FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER. 

FA6B 

THE maid's tragedy 103 

PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES A BLEEDING 110 

CUPID's REVENGE 120 

JOHN FLETCHER. 

THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS 125 

THE FALSE ONE... 12S 

love's PILGRIMAGE 142 

BONDUCA 146 

THE bloody brother ; OR, ROLLO 149 

THIERRY AND THEODORET 1 52 

WIT VeiTHOUT MONEY.: 158 

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN 161 

PHILIP MASSINGER. 

THE CITY MADAM 172 

A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS 176 

THE PICTURE 179 

THE PARLIAMENT OF LOVE 182 

A VERY woman; OR, THE PRINCE OF TARENT 185 

THE UNNATURAL COMBAT 187 

PHILIP MASSINGER AND THOMAS DECKER. 
THE VIRGIN MARTYR 1 89 

PHILIP MASSINGER AND NATHANIEL FIELD. 
THE FATAL DOWRY 191 

PHILIP MASSINGER, TIIOBIAS MIDDLETON, AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. 
THE OLD LAW 194 

GEORGE CHAPMAN AND JAMES SHIRLEY. 
PHILIP CHABOT, ADMIRAL OF FRANCE 201 

JAMES SHIRLEY. 

THE maid's REVENGE 207 

THE POLITICIAN 217 

THE BROTHERS 220 

THE LADY OF PLEASURE 227 



SPECIMENS 



OF 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY. BY JOHN FORD. 
Contention of a Bird and a Musician. 
Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales 
Which poets of an elder time have feign'd 
To glorify their Tempe, bred in me 
Desire of visiting that paradise. 
To Thessaly I came, and living private, 
Without acquaintance of more sweet companions 
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, 
I day by day frequented silent groves, 
And solitary walks. One morning early 
This accident encounter'd me : I heard 
The sweetest and most ravishing contention 
That art or nature ever were at strife in. 
A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather 
Indeed entranc'd my soul : as I stole nearer, 
Invited by the melody, I saw 
This youth, this fair fac'd youth, upon his lute 
With strains of strange variety and harmony 
Proclaiming (as it seem'd) so bold a challenge 
To the clear quiristers of the woods, the birds, 
That as they flocked about him, all stood silent 
Wond'ring at what they heard. I wonder'd too. 
A Nightingale, 

PART II. 2 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes 

The challenge ; and, for every several strain 

The well-shap'd youth could touch, slie sung her down ; 

lie could not run division with more art 

Upon his quaking instrument, than she 

The nightingale did with her various notes 

Reply to. 

Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last 

Into a pretty anger ; that a bird. 

Whom art had never taught clifls, moods, or notes, 

Should vie with him for mastery, whose study 

Had busied many hours to perfect practice : 

To end the controversy, in a rapture, 

Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, 

So many voluntaries, and so quick, 

That there was curiosity and cunning. 

Concord in discord, lines of diff'ring method 

Meeting in one full centre of delight. 

The bird (ordained to be 

Music's first martyr) strove to imitate 

These several sounds : which when her warbling throat 

Fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute 

And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness, 

To see the conqueror upon her hearse 

To weep a funeral elegy of tears. 

He looks upon the trophies of his art, 

Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd, and cried, 

" Alas, poor creature, I will soon revenge 

This cruelty upon the author of it. 

Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, 

Shall never more betray a harmless peace 

To an untimely end ;" and in that sorrow, 

As he was pashing it against a tree, 

I suddenly stept in. 

[This Story, which is originally to be met with in Strada's Prolusions, 
lias been pnraplirascd in rhyme by Crashaw, Ambrose Phillips, and others, 
but. none of those versions can at all compare for harmony and grace with 
this blank verse of Ford's ; It is as fine as anything in Beaumont and Fletch 
er; and almost equals the strife which it celebrates.] 



THE LADIES TRIAL. 



THE LADIES TRIAL. BY JOHN FORD. 

Auria, in the possession of Honors, Prcfcrmeiit, Fame, can find no peace 
in his mind while he thinks his Wife unchaste. 

AURIA. AURELIO. 

Anna. Count of Savona, Genoa's Admiral, 
Lord Govesnor of Corsica, enroU'd 
A Worthy of my country, sought and sued to, 
Prais'd, courted, flatter'd ! — 

My triumphs 

Are echoed under eveiy roof, the air 

Is streightned with the sound, there is not room . 

Enough to brace them in ; but not a thought 

Doth pierce into the grief that cabins here : 

Here through a creek, a little inlet, crawls 

A flake no bigger than a sister's thread, 

Which sets the region of my heart a fire. 

I had a kingdom once, but am depos'd 

Prom all that royalty of blest content, 

By a confed'racy 'twixt love and frailty. 

Aiirelio. Glories in public view but add to misery, 
IVhich travails in unrest at home. 

Auria. At home ! 
That home, Aurelio speaks of, I have lost : 
And which is worse, when I have roll'd about, 
Toil'd like a pilgrim, round this globe of earth, 
Wearied with care, and over-worn with age, 
Lodg'd in the grave, I am not yet at home. 
There rots but half of me : the other part 
Sleeps, heaven knows where. Would she and I, my wife 
I mean, but what, alas, talk I of wife ? 
The woman, would we had together fed 
On any out-cast parings coarse and mouldy, 
Not liv'd divided thus ! 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



LOVE'S SACRIFICE ; A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FORD, 

Biancha, Wife to Caraffa, Duke of Pavia, loves and is loved by Fer- 
nando the Duke's favorite. She long resists his importunate suit ; 
at length she enters the room where he is sleeping and awakens him, to 
hear her confessio7i of her love for him. 

Biancha. Ferdinand, sleeping. 

Bian. Resolve, and do ; 'tis done. What, are those eyes, 
Which lately were so over-drown'd in tears, 
So easy to take rest ? O happy man. 
How sweetly sleep hath seal'd up sorrows here ! 
But I will call him : what, my Lord, my Lord, 
My Lord Fernando 

Fer. Who calls ? 

Bian. My Lord : 
Sleeping, or waking ? 

Fer. Ha, who is 't ? 

Bian. 'Tis I : 
Have you forgot my voice ? or is your ear 
But useful to your eye 1 

Fer. Madam the Duchess ! 

Bian. She, 'tis she ; sit up : 
Sit up and wonder, whiles my sorrow swell : 
The nights are short and I have much to say. 

Fer. Is 't possible 'tis you ? 

Bian. 'Tis possible : 
Wliy do you think 1 come ? 

Fer. Why ? to crown joys, 
And make me master of my best desires. 

Bian. 'Tis true, you guess aright ; sit up and listen. 
With shame and passion now I must confess. 
Since first mine eyes beheld you, in my heart 
You have been only king. If there can be 
A violence in love, then I have felt 
That tyranny ; be record to my soul 
The justice which I for this folly fear. 
Fernando, in short words, howe'er my tongue 
Did often chide thy love, each word thou spak'st 



LOVE'S SACRIFICE. 



Was music to my ear : was never poor 

Poor wretched woman liv'd, that lov'd like me ; 

So truly, so unfeignedly. 

Fer. Oh Madam 

Bian. To witness that I speak is truth, look here ; 
Thus singly I adventure to thy bed, 
And do confess my weakness : if thou tempt'st 
My bosom to thy pleasures, I will yield. 

Fcr. Perpetual happiness ! 

Bian. Now hear me out : 
When first Caraffa, Pavy's Duke, my Lord, 
Saw me, he lov'd me, and (without respect 
Of dower) took me to his bed and bosom, 
Advanc'd me to the titles I possess, 
Not mov'd by counsel, or remov'd by greatness : 
Which to requite, betwixt my soul and heaven 
I vow'd a vow to live a constant wife. 
I have done so : nor was there in the world 
A man created, could have broke that truth. 
For all the glories of the earth, but thou. 
But thou, Fernando. Do I love thee now ? 

Fer. Beyond imagination. 

Bian. True, I do. 
Beyond imagination : if no pledge 
Of love can instance what T speak is true, 
But loss of my best joys, here, here, Fernando, 
Be satisfied and ruin me. 

Fer What do you mean ? 

Bian. To give my body up to thy embraces ; 
A pleasure that I never wish'd to thrive in 
Before this fatal minute : mark me now ; 
If thou dost spoil me of this robe of shame. 
By my best comforts here, I vow again. 
To thee, to heaven, to the world, to time, 
Ere yet the morning shall new christen day, 
[ '11 kill myself. 

Fer. How, Madam, how ? 

Bian. I will : 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Do what thou wilt, 'tis in thy choice ; what say ye ? 

Fer. Pish, do you come to try me ? tell me first, 
Will you but grant a kiss ? 

Bian. Yes, take it ; that, 
Or what thy heart can wish : I am all thine. 

Fer. Oh me come, come, how many women, pray, 

Were ever heard or read of, granted love. 
And did as you protest you will ? 

Bian. Fernando ! [Kneels. 

Jest not at my calamity : I kneel : 
By these dishevel'd hairs, these wretched tears. 
By all that 's good, if what I speak, my heart 
Vows not eternally ; then think, my Lord, 
Was never man sued to me I denied. 
Think me a common and most cunning whore, 
And let my sins be written on my grave, 
My name rest in reproof Do as you list. 

Fer. I must believe ye ; yet I hope anon. 
When you are parted from me, you will say 
I was a good cold easy-spirited man. 
Nay, laugh at my simplicity : say, will ye ? 

Bian. No ; by the faith I owe my bridal vows : 
But ever hold thee much much dearer far 
Than all my joys on earth ; by this chaste kiss. 

Fer. You have prevailed : and heaven forbid that I 
Should by a wanton appetite profane 
This sacred temple. 'Tis enough for me. 
You'll please to call me servant. 

Bian. Nay, be thine : 
Command my power, my bosom, and I'll write 
This love within the tables of my heart. 

Fer. Enough : I'll master passion, and triumph 
In being conquer'd, adding to it this, 
In you my love as it begun shall end. 

Bian. The latter I new vow but day comes on : 

What now we leave unfinish'd of content, 
Each hour shall perfect up. Sweet, let us part. 

Fer. Best Life, good resi. 



PERKIN WARBECK. 



THE CHRONICLE HISTORY OF PERKIN WARBECK. 
BY JOHN FORD. 

Perkin Warbeck and his Followers are by Lord Dawbney presented to 
King Henry as Prisoners. 

Dawb. Life to the King, and safety fix his throne. 
I here present you, royal Sir, a shadow 
Of majesty, but in effect a substance 
Of pity ; a young man, in nothing grown 
To ripeness, but th' ambition of your mercy : 
Perkin ; the christian world's strange wonder ! 

King H. Dawbney, 
We observe no wonder ; I behold ('tis true) 
An ornament of nature, fine, and polisht, 
A handsome youth indeed, but not admire him. 
How came he to thy hands ? 

Dawb. From sanctuary 
At Bewley, near Southampton ; registred, 
With these few followers, for persons privileged. 

King H. I must not thank you. Sir ; you were to blame 
To infringe the liberty of houses sacred : 
Dare we be irreligious ? 

Dawb. Gracious Lord, 
They voluntarily resign'd themselves. 
Without compulsion. 

King H. So ? 'twas very well ; 
'"Twas very well. Turn now thine eyes, 
Young man, upon thyself and thy past actions. 
What revels in combustion through our kingdom 
A frenzy of aspiring youth hath danced : 
Till wanting breath, thy feet of pride have slipt 
To break thy neck. 

Warb. But not my heart : my heart 
Will mount, till every drop of blood be frozen 
By death's perpetual Winter. If the sun 
Of majesty be darkned, let the sun 
Of life be hid from me, in an eclipse 
Lasting, and universal. Sir; remember, 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



There was a shooting in of light, when Richmond 
(Not aiming at the crown) retired, and gladly, 
For comfort to the Duke of Brctagne's Court. 
Richard, who sway'd the sceptre, was reputed 
A tyrant then, ; yet then, a dawning glimmer'd 
To some few wand'ring remnants, promising day, 
When first they ventur'd on a frightful shore, 
At Milford Haven. 

Ddiob. Whither speeds his boldness ? 
Check his rude tongue, great Sir. 

Khig H. O let him range : 
Tlic player 's on the stage still ; 'tis his part : 
He does but act. What follow'd ? 

Warb. Bosworth field : 
^VlK'ro at an instant, to the world's amazement, 
A morn to Richmond and a night to Richard 
Appeared at once. The tale is soon applied : 
Fato whicii crown'd these attempts, when least assured, 
Might have befriended others, like resolved. 

King H. A pretty gallant ! thus your Aunt of Burgundy, 
Your Duchess Aunt, inform'd her nephew ; so 
Tiic lesson prompted, and well conn'd, was moulded 
Into familiar dialogue, oft rehears'd. 
Till, learnt by hearty 'tis now received for truth. 

Warb. Truth in her pure simplicity wants art 
To put a feigned blush on ; scorn wears only 
Such fashion, as commends lo gazers' eyes 
Sad ulcerated novelty, far beneath 
The sphere of majesty : in such a court 
Wisdom and gravity are proper robes. 
By which the sovereign is best distinguish'd 
From zanies to his greatness. 

King H. Sirrah, shift 
Your antick pageantry, and now appear 
In your own nature ; or you '11 taste the danger 
Of fooling out of season. 

Warh. I expect 
No less than what severity calls justice, 



PEUKLN WARBECK. 



And politicians safety ; let such beg, 

As feed on alms: but if there can be mercy 

In a protested enemy, then may it 

Descend to these poor creatures,* whose engagements 

To the bettering of their fortunes, have incurr'd 

A loss of all : to them if any charity 

Flow from some noble orator, in death 

I owe the fee of thankfulness. 

King H. So brave ? 
What a bold knave is this ! 
We trifle time with follies. 

Urswick, command tlic Dukeling, and these fellows, 
To Digb.y, the Lieutenant of the Tower : 
With safety let them be convey 'd to London. 
It is our pleasure, no uncivil outrage, 
Taunts, or abuse, be sufTer'd to their persons : 
They shall meet fairer law than they deserve. 
Time may restore their wits, whom vain ambition 
Hath many years distracted. 

Warh. Noble thoughts 
Meet freedom in captivity. The Tower : 
Our childhood's dreadful nursery ! 

King H. Was ever so much impudence in forgery ? 
The custom sure of being styl'd a King, 
Hath fast'ned in his thoughts that he is such. 

Warbcck is led to his Death. 

Oxford. Look ye, behold your followers, appointed 
To wait on ye in death. 

Warh. Why, Peers of England, 
We'll lead 'em on courageously. I read 
A triumph over tyranny upon 
Their several foreheads. Faint not in the moment 
Of victory ! our ends, and Warwick's head, 
Innocent Warwick's head (for we are prologue 
But to his tragedy), conclude the wonder 
Of Henry's fears : and then the glorious race 

* His Followers. 



10 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Of fourteen kings Plantagenets, determines 

In this last issue male. Heaven be obey'd. 

Impoverish time of its amazement, friends : 

And we will prove as trusty in our payments, 

As prodigal to nature in our debts. 

Death ! pish, 'tis but a sound ; a name of air ; 

A minute's storm ; or not so much ; to tumble 

From bed to bed, be massacred alive 

By some physicians for a month or two, 

In hope of freedom from a fever's torments. 

Might stagger manhood ; here, the pain is past 

Ere sensibly 'tis felt. Be men of spirit ; 

Spurn coward passion : so illustrious mention 

Shall blaze our names, and style us Kings o'er Death. 



'TIS PITY SHE'S A WHORE: A TRAGEDY, BY JOHN FORD. 

Giovanni, a Young Gentleman of Parma, entertains an illicit love for 
his Sister. He asks counsel of Bonaventura, a Friar * 

Friak. Giovanni. 

Friar. Dispute no more in this, for know, young man, 
These are no school-points ; nice philosophy 
May tolerate unlikely arguments. 
But heaven admits no jests ! wits that presumed 
On wit too much, by striving how to prove 
There was no God, witii foolisli grounds of art, 
Discover'd first the nearest way to hell ; 
And till'd the world with devilish atiieism. 
Such questions, youth, arc ft)nd ; far better 'tis 
To bless tlie sun, than reason why it shines ; 
Yet he thou talk'st of is above the sun. 
No more ; I may not hear it. 

Gio. Gentle father, 

* The good Friar in this Play is evidently a Copy of Friar Lav.ionce in 
Romeo and Juliet. He is the same kind Physician to the Souls of his young 
Chai'ges ; but he has more desperate Patients to deal with. 



'TIS PITY SHE'S A WHORE. 11 



To you have I unclasp'd my burtlicn'd soul, 
Emptied the store-ljouse of my thoughts and heart, 
Made myself poor of secrets ; have not left 
Another word untold, which hath not spoke 
All what I over durst, or think, or know; 
And yet is here the comfort I shall have ? 
Must I not do what all men else may, love ? 

Friar. Yes, you may love, fair son. 

Gio. Must I not praise 
That beauty whicli, if framed anew, tiie Gods 
Would make a God of, if they had it there ; 
And kneel to it, as I do kneel to them 1 

Friar. Why, foolish madman ! 

Gio. Shall a peevish sound, 
A customary form, from man to man, 
Of brother and of sister, be a bar 
'Twixt my perpetual happiness and me ? 

Friar. Have done, unhappy youth, for thou art lost. 

Gio. No, father : in your eyes I see the change 
Of pity and compassion : from your age. 
As from a sacred oracle, distils 
The life of counsel. Tell me, holy man. 
What cure shall give me ease in these extremes ? 

Friar. Repentance, son, and sorrow for this sin : 
For thou hast moved a majesty above 
With thy unguarded almost blasphemy. 

Gio. O do not speak of that, dear confessor. 

Friar. Art thou, my son, that miracle of wit. 
Who once within these three months wert esteem'd 
A wonder of thine age throughout Bononia ? 
How did the university applaud 
Thy government, behavior, learning, speech, 
Sweetness, and all that could make up a man ! 
I was proud of my tutelage, and chose 
Rather to leave my books tiian part with thee. 
I did so ; but the fruits of all my hopes 
Are lost in thee, as thou art in thyself. 
O Giovanni, hast thou left the schools 



12 ENGLISH DRAMATIC PORTS. 



Of knowledge, to converse with lust and death ? 

For doath waits on thy lust. Looiv through the world, 

And thou slialt see a thousand laces shine 

More glorious than this idol thou adorost. 

Leave her and take thy clioice ; 'tis nuich less sin : 

Though in such games as those they lose that win. 

Gio. It were more ease to stop the ocean 
From flows and ehbs, than to dissuade my vows. 

Friar. Then I have done, and in tliy wilful flames 
Already see thy ruin ! heaven is just. 
Yet hear my counsel [ 

Gio. As a voice of life. 

Friar. Hie to thy flither's house, there lock thee fast 
Alone within thy chamber, then fall down 
On both thy knees, and grovel on the ground ; 
Ory to tliy heart, wash every word thou utter'st 
In tears, and (if 't be possible) of blood : 
Beg heaven to cleanse the leprosy of lust 
That rots thy soul ; acknowledge what thou art, 
A wretch, a worm, a nothing : weep, sigh, pray 
Three times a day, and three times every night; 
For seven days' space do this, then, if thou find'st 
No change in thy desires, return to me ; 
1 '11 think on remedy. Pray for thyself 

At home, whilst I pray for thee here ; away. 

My blessing with thee we have need to pray. 

Giovamii discloses fiis Passion to liis Sister .innabcUa. — They compire 
thtir ituhappy Loves. 

Anna. Do you mock me, or Hatter me ? 

\^^Hc has heen praising her heauti/. 

Gio. If you would see a beauty more exact 
Tlian art can counterfeit, or nature frame. 
Look in your glass and there behold your own. 

Anna. you are a trim youth. 

Gio. Here. [Offers his dagger to her. 

Anna. What to do ? 

Gio. And here 's my breast. Strike home, 
Rip up my bosom; tlure thou shalt behold 



'TIS PITY SHE'S A WHORE. 13 



A heart, in which is writ the truth I speak. 
Why stand you ? 

Anna. Are you in earnest ? 

Gio. Yes, most earnest. 
You cannot love. 

Anna. Whom ? 

Gio. Me. My tortur'd soul 

Hath felt affliction in the heat of death. 

Annabella, I am quite undone. 

The love of thee, my sister, and the view 
Of thy immortal beauty, have untuned 
All harmony both of my rest and life. 
Why do you not strike ? 

Anna. Forbid it, my just fears. 
If this be true 'twere fitter I were dead. 

Gio. True, Annabella ! 'tis no time to jest ; 

1 have too long suppress'd my hidden flames, 
That almost have consum'd me : I have spent 
Many a silent night in sighs and groans, 
Ilan over all my thoughts, dcspis'd my fate, 
Reason'd against the reasons of my love. 

Done all that smooth-cheek'd virtue could advise. 
But found all bootless : 'tis my destiny 
That you must either love, or I must die. 

Anna. Comes this in sadness from you ? 

Gio. Let some mischief 
Befall mo soon, if I dissemble aught. 

Anna. You are my brother, Giovanni. 

Gio. You 
My sister, Annabella, I know this : 
And could afford you instance why to love 
So much the moi*e for this. — 

He gives some sophistical Reasons and resumea. 
Must I now live or die ? 

Anna. Live : thou hast won 
The field, and never fought. What thou hast urg'd, 
My captive heart had long ago resolv'd. 



14 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



I blush to tell thee (but I tell thee now) 
For every sigh that tliou hast spent for me, 
I have sigh'd ten ; for every tear shed twenty : 
And not so much Cor th;it I lov'd, as that 
I durst not say 1 lov'd, nor scarcely think it. 

Gio. Let not this nmsic be a dream, ye gods, 
For pity's sake I bog yc. 

Anna. On my knees, 
Brotlicr, even by our mother's dust, I charge you. 
Do not betray me to your mirth or liate ; 
Love me, or kill me, Ijrother. 

Gio. On my knees. 
Sister, even by my mother's dust, I charge you, 
Do not betray mo to your mirth or liato ; 
Love me, or kill me, sister. 

AniKi. You mean good sooth, then ? 

Gio. Ill good trutli I do J 
And so ilo you, 1 liopc : say, I'm in earnest. 

Anna. I'll swear it ; and I. 

Gio. And I. 
I would not cliaugo this minute for Elysium. 



[SAe kneels. 



[He kneels. 



Jlirnahilld proiHs prcp;iia»t by hir Brother. Sorniiu, her Husband, to 
whom .'<hc is newly married, discovers that she is pregnant^ but cannot 
malee her confess by whom. jIt length by means of Vasques, his ser- 
vant, he comes to the truth of it. He feigns forgituness and reconcile 
ment with his Wife: and makes a sumptuous Feast to lohich arc in- 
vited Jinn abel la's old Father, with Giovanni, and all the chief Citizens 
in Parma; meaning to entrap (Jiovanni by that bait to his death.- 
.Annabella sn.ijiects his drift. 



Giovanni. Annabella. 

Gio. What, chang'd so soon ? 

does the fit come on you, to prove treacherous 

To your past vow s and oaths ? 

Anna. Wliy slunild you jest 
At my calamity, without all sense 
Of the approacliing dangers you are in ? 

Gio. Wliat danger's half so great as tliy revolt? 



TIS PITY SHE'S A WHORE. 15 



Tliou art a faithless sister, else thou know'st, 
Malice or any treachery beside 
Would stoop to my bent brows : why, I hold fate 
Clasp'd in my fist, and could command the course 
Of time's eternal motion, had'st thou been 
One thought more steady than an ebbing sea. 

Anna. Brother, dear brother, know what I have been; 
And know that now there's but a dining time 
'Twixt us and our confusion : let's not waste 
These precious hours in vain and useless speech. 
Alas, these gay attires were not put on 
But to some end ; this sudden solemn feast 
Was not ordain'd to riot and expense ; 
I that have now been chamber'd here alone, 
Barr'd of my guardian, or of any else, 
Am not for nothing at an instant freed 
To fresh access. Be not doceiv'd, my brother; 
This banquet is a harbinger of death 
To you and mo ; resolve yourself it is. 
And be prepar'd to welcome it. 

Gio. Well then. 
The schoolmen teach that all this globe of earth 
Shall be consumed to ashes in a minute. 

Anna. So I have read too. 

Gio. But 'twere somewhat strange 
To see the waters burn. Could I believe 
This might be true, I could believe as well 
There might be hell or heaven. 

Anna. That's most certain. But 

Good brother, for the present, how do you mean 
To free yourself from danger ? some way think 
How to escape. I'm sure the guests are come. 

(rio. Look up, lo^ here : what sec you in my face 1 

Anna. Distraction and a troubled conscience. 

Gio. Death and a swift repining wrath yet look, 

What see you in mine eyes ? 

An7in. Methinks you weep. 

Gio. I do indeed ; these are the funeral tears 



16 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Shed on your grave : these furrow'd up my cheeks, 

When first I lov'd and knew not how to woo. 

Fair Annabella, should I here repeat 

The story of my life, we might lose time. 

Be record all the spirits of the air, 

And all things else that are, that day and night, 

Early and late, the tribute which my heart 

Hath paid to Annabella's sacred love, 

Hath been these tears which are her mourners now. 

Never till now did Nature do her best. 

To show a matchless beauty to the world, 

Which in an instant, ere it scarce was seen. 

The jealous destinies requir'd again. 

Pray, Annabella, pray ; since we must part, 

Go thou, white in thy soul, to fill a throne 

Of innocence and sanctity in heaven. 

Pray, pray, my sister. 

Anna. Then I see your drift. 
Ye blessed angels, guard me ! 

Gio. Give me your hand. How sweetly life doth run 
In these well-color'd veins ! how constantly 
This pulse doth promise health ! But I could chide 
With Nature for this cunning flattery ! 
Forgive me. 

Anna. With my heart. 

Gio. Farewell. 

Anna. Will you be gone ? 

Gio. Be dark, bright sun. 
And make this mid-day night, that thy gilt rays 
May not behold a deed, will turn their splendor 
More sooty than the poets feign their Styx. 

Anna. What means this ? [Stabs her. 

Gio. To save thy fame. • 

Thus die, and die by me, and by my hand ; 
Revenge is mine, honor doth love command. 

Anna. Forgive him, heaven, and me my sins. Farewell. 
Brother unkind, unkind [Dies. 



THE BROKKN HEART. 



[Sir Thomas Browne, in the last Chapter of his Enquiries into Vulgar 
and Common Errors, rebukes such Authors as have chosen to relate pro- 
digious and nameless Sins. The Chapter is entitled, Of some Relations 
whose T7uth we fear. His reasoning is solemn and fine. — " Lastly, as 
there are many Relations whereto we cannot assent, and make some doubt 
thereof, so there are divers others whose verities we fear, and heartily 
wish {here were no truth therein. Many other accounts like these we 
meet sometimes in History, scandalous unto Christianity, and even unto 
humanity ; whose not only verities but relations honest minds do deprecate. 
For of sins heteroclital, and such as want either name or precedent, there 
is oft-tirnes a sin even in their histories. We desire no records of such 
enormities ; sins should be accounted new, that so they may be esteemed 
monstrous They omit of monstrosity, as they fall from their rarity ; for 
men count it venial to err with their forefathers, and foolishly conceive 
they divide a sin in its society. The pens of men may sufficiently expatiate 
without these singularities of villainy : for, as they increase the hatred of 
vice in some, so do they enlarge the theory of wickedness in all. And this 
is one thing that may make latter ages worse than were the former : for the 
vicious example of ages past, poison the curiosity of these present, afford- 
ing a hint of sin unto seduceable spirits, and soliciting those unto the 
imitation of them, whose heads were never so perversely principled as to 
invent them. In things of this nature silence commendeth History ; 'tis 
the veniable part of things lost, wherein there must never rise a Pancirol- 
lus* nor remain any register bm that of Hell."] 



THE BROKEN HEART. A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FORD. 

Itkocles loves Calantha, Princess of Sparta ; and would have his sister 
Penthea plead for him with the Princess. She objects to him her own 
wretched condition, inade miserable by a Maith, into which he forced 
her with Bassanes, when she was precontracted by her dead Father's 
Will, and by inclination, to Orgilus ; but at last she consents. 

Ithocles. Penthea. 
Ith. Sit nearer, sister, to me, nearer yet ; 
We had one father, in one womb took life, 
Were brought up twins together, yet have liv'd 
At distance like two strangers. I could wish, 
That the first pillow whereon I was cradled 
Had proved to me a grave. 

* Who wrote De Antiquia Deperditia, or the Lost Inventions of 
Antiquity. 

PAET 11. 3 



IS ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS 



Pen. You had been happy : 
Then had you novor known that sin of life 
Whicli blots all following glories with a vengeance ; 
For forfeiting the last will of the dead, 
From whom you had your being. 

Ith. Sad Penthea, 
Tiiou canst not be too eruol ; my rash spleen 
lluth with a violent liand i)luek"d from thy bosom 
A lover-blest heart, to grind it into dust ; 
For which mine's now a breaking. 

Pen. Not yet, heaven, 
I do beseech thee : first let some wild fires 
Scorch, not consume it ; may the heat be cherish 'd 
With desire*intinite but hopes impossible. 

1th. Wrong'd soul, thy prayers are heard. 

Fen. Here, lo, I breathe, 
A miserable creature, led to ruin 
By an uimatural brother. 

Ifh. I consume 
In languishing atlections for that trespass, 
Yet cannot die. 

Pen. The handmaid to the w.tges, 
The untroubleil* of country t"d, drinks streams, 
With leaping kids, and witl« tlie bleating lambs, 
And so allays her thirst .-K^cure ; while I 
Quench my hot sighs >»'ith fleetings of my teai-s. 

Ith. The laborer doth eat his coarsest bread, 
Earn'd with his s>*eat, and lies hin> down to sleep; 
While every bit I touch turns in digestion 
To gall, as bitter as Penthea's curse. 
Put me to any penance for my tyranny, 
And I will call thee merciful. 

Pen. Pray kill me ; 
Rid me from living with a jealous husband ; 
Then we will join in friendship, be again 
Brother and sister 

* A word seems defective here. 



THE BROKEN IIKAIIT. 19 



Ith. After my victories abroad, at home 
I meet despair ; ingratitudo of nature 
Hath made my actions monstrous : Thou shalt stand 
A deity, my sister, and be worsiiipp'd 
For thy resolved martyrdom; vvrong'd maids 
And married wives shall to thy hallow'd shrine 
Oiler tluMr orisons, and sacrifice 
Pure turtles crown'd with mirtle, if thy pity 
Unto a yielding brother's pressure lend 
One finger but to ease it. 

Pen. O no more. 

Ith. Death vi'aits to waft me to the Stygian banks, 
And free me from this chaos of my bondage ; 
And till thou wilt forgive, I must endure. 

Pen. Who is the saint you serve ? 

Ith. Friendship, or nearness 
Of birth, to any but my sister, durst not 
Have mov'd that question : as a secret, sister, 
I dare not murmur to myself. 

Pen. Let me, 
By your new protestations I conjure ye. 
Partake her name. 

Ith. Her name 'tis 'tis — I dare not — 

Pen. All your respects are forg'd. 

Ith. They are not — Peace. — 
Calantha is the princess, the king's daughter, 
Sole heir of Sparta. Me most miserable 
Do I now love thee ? For my injuries. 
Revenge thyself with bravery, and gossip 
My treasons to the king's ears. Do ; Calantha 
Knows it not yet, nor Prophilus my nearest. 

Pen. Suppose you were contracted to her, would it not 
Split even your very soul to see her father 
Snatch her out of your arms against her will, 
And force her on the Prince of Argos ? 

Ith. Trouble not 
The fountains of mine eyes with thine own story : 
I sweat in blood for 't. 



20 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Pen. We are reconciled. 
Alas, Sir, being children, but two branches 
Of one stock, 'tis not fit we should divide. 
Have comfort, you may find it. 

Ith. Yes, in thee, 
Only in thee, Penthea mine. 

Pen. If sorrows 
Have not too much duU'd my infected brain, 
I'll cheer invention for an active strain. 



Penthea recommends her Brother a^ a dying bequest to the Princeaa. 

Calantha. Penthea. 

Cal. Being alone, Penthea, you have granted 
The opportunity you sought, and might 
At all times have commanded. 

Pen. 'Tis a benefit 
Which I shall owe your goodness oven in death for. 
My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes 
Remaining to run down ; the sands are spent ; 
For by an inward messenger I feel 
The summons of departure short and certain. 

Cal. You feed too much your molanclioly. 

Pen. Glories 
Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams 
And shadows soon decaying : on the stage 
Of my mortality my youth hath acted 
Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length ; 
By varied pleasures sweetened in the mixture, 
But tragical in issue. 

Cal. Contemn not your condition, for the proof 
Of bare opinion only : to what end 
Reach all these moral texts ? 

Pen. To place before ye 
A perfect mirror, wherein you may see 
How weary I am of a lingering life, 
Who count the best a misery. 

Cal. Indeed 



THE BROKEN HEART. 21 



You liave no little cause ; yet none so great, 
As to distrust a remedy. 

Fen. That remedy 
Must be a winding sheet, a fold of lead, 
And some untrod on corner in the earth. 
Not to detain your expectation. Princess ; 
I have an humble suit. 

Cal. Speak, and enjoy it. 

Pen. Vouchsafe then to be my Executrix ; 
And take that trouble on ye, to dispose 
Such legacies as I bequeath impartially : 
I have not much to give, the pains are easy ; 
Heaven will reward your piety and thank it, 
When I am dead ; for sure I nmst not live ; 
I hope I cannot. ' 

Cal. Now beshrew thy sadness ; 
Thou turnst me too much woman. 

Pen. Her fair eyes 
Melt into passion : then I have assurance 
Encouraging my boldness. In this paper 
My will was character'd ; which you, with pardon, 
Shall now know from mine own mouth. 

Cal. Talk on, prithee ; 
It is a pretty earnest. 

Pen. I have left me 
But three poor jewels to bequeath. The first is 
My youth ; for though I am much old in griefs. 
In years I am a child. 

Cal. To whom that ? 

Pe7i. To virgin wives ; such as abuse not wedlock 
By freedom of desires, but covet chiefly 
The pledges of chaste beds, for ties of love 
Rather than ranging of their blood : and next. 
To married maids ; such as prefer the imniber 
Of honoral)le issue in their virtues, 
Before the flattery of deligiits by marriage ; 
May those be ever young. 

Cal. A second jewel 



22 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



You mean to part with ? 

Pen. 'Tis my fame ; I trust, 
By scandal yet untouch'd : this I bequeath 
To Memory and Time's old daughter, Truth. 
If ever my unhappy name find mention, 
When I am fall'n to dust, may it deserve 
Beseeming charity without dishonor, 

Cal. How handsomely thou play'st with harmless sport 
Of mere imagination ! Speak the last. 
I strangely like thy will. 

Pen. This jewel. Madam, 
Is dearly precious to me ; you must use 
The best of your discretion, to employ 
This gift as I intend it. 

Cal. Do not doubt me. 

Pen. 'Tis long ago, since first I lost my heart ; 
Long I have liv'd without it : but in stead 
Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heir. 
By service bound, and by afiection vow'd, 
I do bequeath in holiest rites of love 
Mine only brother Ithocles. 

Cal. What saidst thou ? 

Pen. Impute not, heav'n-blest lady, to ambition, 
A faith as humbly perfect as the prayers 
Of a devoted suppliant can endow it : 
Look on him, Princess, with an eye of pity ; 
How like the ghost of what he late appear'd 
He moves before you. * 

Cal. Shall I answer here, 
Or lend my ear too grossly ? 

Pen. First his heart 
Shall fall in cinders, scorch'd by your disdain, 
Ere he will dare, poor man, to ope an eye 
On these divine looks, but with low-bent thoughts 
Accusing such presumption : as for words. 
He dares not utter any but of service ; 
Yet this lost creature loves you. Be a Princess 
In sweetness as in blood ; give him his doom, 



THE BROKEN HEART. 23 



Or raise him up to comfort. 

CaI. What new change 
Appears in my behavior, that thou darest 
Tempt my displeasure ? 

Pen. I must leave the world, 
To revel in Elysium ; and 'tis just 
To wish my brother some advantage here. 
Yet by my best hopes, Ithocles is ignorant 
Of this pursuit. But, if you please to kill him, 
Lend him one angry look, or one harsh word. 
And you shall soon conclude how strong a power 
Your absolute authority holds over 
His life and end. 

Cal. You have forgot, Penthea, 
How still I have a father. 

Pen. But remember 
I am sister : though to me this brother 
Hath been, you know, unkind, O most unkind. 

Cal. Christalla, Philema, where are ye ? — Lady, 
Your check lies in my silence.* 

While Calantha {Princess of Sparta) is celebrating the JVuptials of Pro- 
philus and Euphranea at Court with Music and Dancing, one enters 
to inform her that the King her Father is dead ; a second brings the 
JVews that Penthea {Sister to Ithocles) is starved; and a third comes 
to tell that Ithocles himself {to whom the Princess is contracted) is 
cruelly tnurdered. 

Calantha. Feophilxis. Euphranea. Nearchus. Crotolon. 
Christalla. Philema, and others. 

Cal. We miss our servant Ithocles, and Orgilus ; 
On whom attend they ? 

Crot. My son, gracious princess, 
Whisper'd some new device, to which these revels 
Should be but usher : wherein, I conceive, 
Lord Ithocles and he himself ai'e actors. 

* It is necessary to the understanding of the Scene which follows, to 
know that the Princess is won by these solicitations of Penthea, and by the 
real deserts of Ithocles, to requite his love, and that they are contracted 
with the consent of the Kinsr her Father. 



84 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Cal. A fair oxcuso for absence : as for Bassanes, 
Delights to him are t loublosomc ; Armostes 
Is with the King. 

Crot. He is. 

Cal. On to the dance : 
{To Nearciu's.) Dear cousin, liand you the bride ; the bride- 

groiini must be 
Intrusted to my courtship : be not jealous, 
Euphranea ; I shall scarcely prove a temptress. 
Fall to our dance. 

They (Uinct- the first Change, (Juring which Armostks enters. 
Ann. The King your Father 's dead. 
Cal. To the other change. 
Arm. Is it possible ? 

They d<tnce again : Bassanes enters. 

Bass. O IMadani. 
Penthea, poor Penthea 's starv'd. 

Cal. Beshrew thee. 

Lead to the next. 

Bass, Amazement dulls n»y senses. 

They dance again : Ouc;u,us enters. 

Org. Brave Ithocles is murderM, nuirder'd cruelly. 

Cal. How iluU this music sounds! 8triiu> up nwre sprightly: 
Our fixitings arc not active like our heart, 
Which treads the nimbler measure. 

Org. I am thunder-struck. 

They dunce the last Chatige. 2Vu: Music ceases. 

CaJ. So let us bivathe awhile : hath not this motion 
Rais'd fivsher color on your cheeks ? [To Nearchus. 

Near. Sweet Princess, 
A pertect purity of blood enamels 
The lH7\uty of your white. 

Cal. We all Iwk ciieerfully ; 
And, cousin, 'tis methinks a rare presumption 



rHK UUOKKN HEART. 35 



III any, who pr«>f(M's dur liiwTul plt*«snroa 
Boforo tliiMV own sonr wnsnrt", to intorrupt 
The custom of tliis ceremony bluntly. 

Near. None dares. Lady. 

Cal. Yes, yes ; some hollow voice deliver'd to mo 
How that tile Kiiii^ was tlead. 

Arm. The Kiiiif is dead : 
That fatal news was mine ; for in mine arms 
He breath'd his last, and with his crown bequeath'd you 
Your Mother's wedding-ring, which here I tender. , 

Crot. Most stranj^e. 

Cal. Peace erown his ashes: we are Queen then. 

Near. Long live Calantlui, Sparta's sovereign Queen. 

A/l. Long live the Queen. 

Cal. What whisper'd Bassanes ? 

Bass. That my Penthea,* miserahh^ soul, 
Was starv'd to deatii. 

Cal. She 's happy ; she hatli (inish'd 
A long and painful progress. — A tiiird murmur 
Pierc'd mine unwilling ears. 

Org. That Ith(K'les 
Was murder 'd. 

Cal. By whose hand ? 

Org. By mine : this weapon 
Was instrument to my revenge. The reasonsf 
Are just and known. Quit him of these, and then 
Never liv'd gentleman of greater merit, 
Hope, orahiliment to steer a kingdom. 

Cal. We begin our reign 
With a first act of justice ; thy confession, 
Unhappy Orgilus, dooms thee a sentence ; 
But yet thy father's or thy sister's presence 
Shall be excus'd : give Crotolon.^ a blessing 
To thy lost son : Kupliranea,§ take a farewt>ll : 

* WitV to Hiissuncs. 

t Pi-ntlu<a (sister to (thoclcs) was betrothed at first to Orgilus, but com- 
pclleil by hor brother to marry Hassanes : by which forced match she be- 
ciimins misor.\ble, refused to take food, and died, 

t His Father § His Sister. 



a6 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

And both begone. 

(To Okgilus.) Bloody relator of tliy stains in blood 

For that thou hast reported him (whoso Ibrtiuies 

And life by thee arc both at once snatch 'd from him) 

With honorable mention, make thy choice 

Of what death likes thee best ; there's all our bounty. 

But to excuse delays, let me, dear cousin, 

Intreat you and tiiese lords see execution. 

Illltant, before ye part. 

Near. Your will commands us. 

Org. One suit, just Queen ; my last. Vouchsafe your 
clemency. 
That by no common hand I be divided 
From this my humble frailty. 

Cal. To their wisdoms. 
Who are to be spectators of thine end, 
I make the reference. Those that are dead, 
Are dead ; had they not now died, of necessity 
They must have paid the debt they owed to nature 
One time or other. Use dispatch, my lords. — 
We 'II suddenly prepare our Coronation. [Exit. 

Arm. 'Tis strange these tragedies should never touch on 
Her female pity. 

Bass, She has a masculine spirit. 

The Coronation of the Princess takes place after the execution of 
Orgifvs. — She enters the Temple, dressed in White, having a Craivn 
on her Head. She kneels at the Jlltar. TVie dead body of Ithocles 
{whom she should have married) is borne on a hearse, in i~ich Bobes, 
hat>ing a Crown on his Head : and placed by the side of the Jlltar, 
where she kneels. Her devotions ended, she rises. — 

Calantha. Nearchus. Pkopiiilus. Crotolon. Bassanes. 
Ahmostes. FiUriiANEA. Amelus. Christalla. Philema, 
and others. 

Cal. Our orisons are hoard, the gods are merciful. 
Now tell me, you, whose loyalties pay tribute 
To us your lawful sovereign, how unskilful 
Your duties, or obedience is, to render 



THE BROKEN HEART. 27 

Subjection to the sceptre of a virgin ; 

Wiio Iiavo been ever fortunate in princes 

Of masculine and stirring composition. 

A woman has enough to govern wisely 

Her own demeanors, passions, and divisions. 

A nafion warlike, and inured to practice 

Of policy and labor, cannot brook 

A feniinate authority : we therefore 

Command your counsel, how you may advise us 

In choosing of a husband, whose abilities 

Can better guide this kingdom. 

Near. Royal Lady 
Your law is in your will. 

Arm. We have seen tokens 
Of constancy too lately to mistrust it 

Crot. Yet if your Highness settle on a choice 
By your own judgment both allow'd and liked of, 
Sparta may grow in power and proceed 
To an increasing height. 

CaL Cousin of Argos. 

Near. Madam. 

CaL Were I presently 
To choose you for my Lord, I '11 open freely 
What articles I would propose to treat on, 
Before our marriage. 

Near. Name them, virtuous Lady. 

Ca/. I would presume you would retain the royalty 
Of Sparta in her own l)ounds : then in Argos 
Armostes might be viceroy ; in Messene 
Might Crotolon bear sway ; and Hcssanes 
Be Sparta's marshall : 

The nmltitudes of high employments could not 
But set a peace to private griefs. These gentlemen, 
Groneas and Lemophil, with worthy pensions, 
Should wait upon your person in your chamber. 
I would bestow Christalla on Amelus ; 
She '11 prove a constant wife: and Philema 
Should into Vesta's 'I'emple. 



28 KNULISIJ DRAMATIC POETS. 

nas.t. Tills is a tostamont ; 
It soiiiuls not like (ionditioiis on a inarriago. 

Dlcar. All tliis .should Ixi pcrConiiM. 

Cal. liUslly for I'ropliilus, 
11(> should ho (cousiu) soloumly invi'stod 
III all tlios(> honors, titles, and prcfennonta, 
VVhioli his dear Crirnd and my neglected hushaiid 
Too short a lim(> oiijoy'd. 

I'ropk. 1 am unworthy 
To live in your rcmcinbranco. 

Euph. Excellent Ludy. 

Near. Madam, what nieaus that word, neffhu'ted hushaiid ? 

Cdl. For}i,ive me : Now I turn to thee, thou shadow 

I To llic dvail bod 11 o/Mtiioci-es 
Of my contraeted Lord : hi>ar witness all, 
I put my moth(>r's weddinjii-ring upon 
Mis liiijrer ; 'twas my falher'a last bequest; 
Tiius I new marry him, whose wife I am ; 
Death shall not s(>i)arate ns. O my lorils, 
1 hut deeeiv'd your (>yes with antiek gesture, 
When one news straight came huddling on another, 
(^r death, and death, and death, still I danc'd forward ; 
\\\\\ it struck home, and here, and in an instant. 
|{e such mere women, who witli shrieks and outcries 
Can vow a present end to all tlK-ir sorrows : 
Yet live to vow new pleasures, and out-live them. 
They are the silent griefs which cmt the heart-strings: 
Let ine die smiling. 

Near, "['is a truth too ominous. 

Cal. One kiss on tli(^se cold lips ; my last. Crack, cra(!k. 
Argos now 's Sparta's King. [7)/r.?. 

[I do iml know wlioro to llnd in iiiiy Pl-.iy n (•;ifiistro|)ii(> so i!;r;u\(1, so 
soloiini, 1111(1 HO siirpvisiii;; as this. Tiiis is iiuteod, iiocordiiij:; to MiUoii, to 
" describe iiiuli ]);issioiia lUid liiRh iirlions." Tlu> fortitude of tlu> Spartuu 
lUiy who lot u boast f!;iiavv out his bowols till ho (hod witliout oxprossinj; a 
(j;roan, is a (aiut bodily iina!;o of tliis dilacoratiou ofllio spirit, and exonte- 
ratioii of tbe inmost mind, wiiioli Calantiia wilii a holy vioh>nco against hor 
nature keeps closely covered, till the last duties of a Wife and a Queen are 
Ciiltilli.l -'1. i-i's of martyrdom are but of chains and th(> stake; a littlo 
bodily niflwiog) th*'Ho torments 



HYMION'S TIirUMPH. 99 



On tho purest spirits proy 

As on entrails, joinls, smd limbs, 

With unswcrablo pains, but moro intense. 

What a noble thing is tho soul in its strcngtlis and its weaknesses ! who 
would be less weak than C-'alantha ? who ran bo ho stronp,- ? (ho expression 
of this (ransci-ndant scene ulmost bears mo in iin;i)rination to Calvary and 
the Cross ; and I se«'m to perr«'ive.«ninc analo(j;y betwocMi tho sccMiicul Hufler- 
inpjs which I am hero contemplating, and th(! real agonies oC timt linal com- 
pletion to which I dare no moro than hint a refereru-c. 

Ford was oftlie first order of Poets. He 8ou|i^iit for sublimity not by par- 
cels in metaphors or vi3il)le images, but directly where she has her Aill 
residence in the iieart of man ; in th(! actions and surt'crings of tiie greatest 
minds. There is a grandeur of the soul above mouulnins, seas, and the 
elements'. Mven in tiie ])oor perverted reason of (Jiovanni and Aimabella 
(in the jilay vvliich precedes tliis) wo discern traces of tliat fiery particle, 
which in tho irregular starting Irom out of the roud of l)eatcn action, 
discovers something (jf a rigid line even in obli(iuity, and shows hints of an 
improvable greatness in tlie lowest descents and degradalions of our 
nature.] 



HYMEN'S TRIUMPH : A PASl'OKAL TRAGI-COMEDY. 
HY .SAMUEL DANIEL. 

Love in Infancy. 
Ah, I romembor well (and how can 1 
But evermore remember well) when first 
Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was 
The flame we felt : when as we ,sat and sigh'd 
And look'd upon each other, and concfiv'd 
Not wiiat WH ail'd, ytt soujething we did ail ; 
And yet were well, and yet we were not well 
And what was our disease we could not tell. 
Then would we ki.ss, then sigh, then look: And thus 
In that first gurdrn of our siinphmess 
VVf spent our childiiood : Hut when years began 
To reap thn fruit of knowledge : aii, how then 
Would she with graver look.s, with fiweet stern brow, 
Check my presumption and my forwardness ; 
Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show 
What she would have me, yot not have nie know. 



JO ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Love after Death. 

Palcemon. Fie, Thirsis, with what fond remembrances 
Dost thou these idle passions entertain ! 
For shame leave off to waste your youth in vain, 
And feed on shadows : make your choice anew ; 
You other nymphs shall find, no doubt will be 
As lovely, and as fair, and sweet as she. 

Thirsis. As fair and sweet as she ! Palsemon, peace : 
Ah, what can pictures be unto the life ? 
What sweetness can be found in images ? 
Which all nymphs else besides her seem to me. 
She only was a real creature, she. 
Whose memory must take up all of me. 
Should I another love, then must I have 
Another heart, for this is full of her, 
And evermore shall be : here is she drawn 
At length, and whole : and more, this table is 
A story, and is all of her ; and all 
Wrought in the liveliest colors of my blood ; 
And can there be a room for others here ? 
Should I disfigure such a piece, and blot 
The perfect'st workmanship that love e'er wrought ? 
Palsemon, no, ah no, it cost too dear ; 
It must remain entire whilst life remains. 
The monument of her and of my pains. 

The Story of Isulia. 
There was sometimes a nymph, 
Isulia named, and an Arcadian boi'n. 
Whose mother dying left her very young 
Unto her father's charge, who carefully 
Did breed her up until she came to years 
Of womanhood, and then provides a match 
Both rich and young, and fit enough for her. 
But she, who to another shepherd had, 
Call'd Sirtliis, vow'd her love, as unto one 
Her heart esteem'd more worthy of her love, 
Could tj( t 1 y all her father's means be wrought 



HYMEN'S TRIUMPH. 31 



To leave her choice, and to forget her vow. 

This nymph one day, surcharg'd with love and grief, 

Which commonly (the more the pity) dwell 

As inmates both together, walking forth 

With other maids to fish upon the shore ; 

Estrays apart, and leaves her company, 

To entertain herself with her own thoughts : 

And wanders on so far, and out of sight, 

As she at length was suddenly surpris'd 

By pirates, who lay lurking underneath 

Those hollow rocks, expecting there some prize. 

And notwithstanding all her piteous cries, 

Intreaties, tears, and prayers, those fierce men 

Rent hair and veil, and carried her by force 

Into their ship, which in a little creek 

Hard by at anchor lay, 

And presently hoisted sail and so away. 

When she was thus inshipp'd and wofuUy 

Had cast her eyes about to view that hell 

Of horror, whereinto she was so suddenly emplung'd, 

She spies a woman sitting with a child 

Sucking her breast, which was the captain's wife. 

To her she creeps, down at her feet she lies ; 

" O woman, if that name of a woman may 

" Move you to pity, pity a poor maid : 

" The mest distressed soul that ever breath 'd ; 

" And save me from the hands of those fierce men. 

" Let me not be defil'd and made unclean, 

" Dear Moman, now, and I will be to you 

" The faithfuU'st slave that ever mistress serv'd ; 

" Never poor soul shall be more dutiful, 

" To do whatever you command, than I. 

" No toil will I refuse ; so that 1 may 

" Keep this poor body clean and undeflower'd, 

" Which is all I will ever seek. For know 

" It is not fear of death lays me thus low, 

" But of that stain will make my death to blush." 

All this would nothing move the woman's heart, 



1-2 ENGLISH UllAMATIC POETS. 

\Vlioni yet slio would not leave, but still besought; 

" O woman, by that infant at your breast, 

" And by the pains it cost you in the birth, 

" Save mo, as over you desire to have 

'• Your bilbo to joy and prosper in the world : 

" M'hicli will tiio bott(M- prosptM" sure, it" you 

'• Sliall mercy show, which is with mercy paid !" 

TluMj kisses she her feet, then kisses too 

The infant's feet; and, "Oh, sweet babe" (^said she), 

'• Could'st thou but to thy mother speak tor me, 

" And crave her to have pity on my ease, 

" Thou mighl'st perhaps prevail witli her so much 

•* Ahhougli I cannot; child, ha, eould"st tiuni speak.' 

The infant, whether by her touching it, 

Or by iiKstinel of nature, seeing hw weep, 

Looks earnestly upon her, and tiien looks 

Upon the mother, then on her again, 

And then it cries, and then on either looks; 

Which slie perceiving ; " Blessed child'' (said she), 

'• Altliougii thou canst not speak, yet dost thou cry 

" I nto thy mother for me. Hear thy child, 

'• Dear mother, it "s for me it cries, 

" It 's all the speech it hatii. Accept those cries, 

•• Save me at his request from being detil'd : 

" Let pity move thee," that tlius moves the child." 

Th(> woman, tho' by birth and custom rude. 

Yet having veins ei nature, eould not be 

But pi(M-eeable, did feel at length the point 

Of pity enter so, as out gnsh'd tears 

(Not usual to stern eyes), and she besought 

Her hu.sband to bestow on her that prize. 

With salcguard of her body at her will. 

The captain seeing his wife, the child tiie nympii. 

All crying to him in this piteous .''ort. 

Felt his tvugh nature shaken too, and grants 

His wife's request, and senls his grant with tears ; 

And so they wept all four for eompany : 

And .some beholders sfi^id not with drv eves ; 



HYMEN'S TIUUAUMI. .,1 



Such passion wrought tlio passion of their prize. 
Never was tluM-o pardon, llmt did take 
Condemned from liie block more joyful than 
This grant to her. For all her misery 
Seem'd nothing to the condbrt she rocciv'd, 
By being thus saved IVom impurity : 
Ami from the woman's feet sln> would not part, 
Nor trust her hand to be without some hold 
Of her, or of the child, so long as she remain'd 
Within the ship, which in few days arrives 
At Alexandria, whence these pirates wore ; 
And tluM'o this woful maid for two years space 
Did serve, and truly serve this captain's wife 
(Who would not lose the benefit of her 
Attendance, for her profit otherwise), 
Hut ilaring not in such a place as that 
To trust herself in woman's habit, crav'd 
That she might be apparel'd like a boy j 
And so she was, and as a boy she served. 
At two years end her mistress sends her forth 
Unto the port for some commodities, 
WMiich wiiilst slie sought ibr, going up and down, 
She heard some merchantmen of Corintii talk, 
Who spake that language the Areadians did. 
And were next neighbors of one eoiilinent, 
To them, all wrapt with passion, down she kneels, 
Tells them she was a poor distressed boy. 
Born in Arcadia, and l»y pirates look. 
And made a slave in Egypt ; and besought 
Them, as they fathers were of children, or 
Did hold their native country dear, they would 
Take pity on h' i'^ and rislieve her youth 
From that sad servitude wherein shi^ liv'd : 
For which she hop'd that she had friends alive 
Would thank tlu m one day, and reward them too ; 
if not, yet that she knew the heav'ns uduld do. 
The merchants moved with pity of her case, 
Being ready to depart, took her with them, 

PART II. 4 



34 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



And landed her upon her country coast : 
WhtMv wlieii she found licrself, she prostrate falls, 
Kisses the ground, thanks gives unto the gods, 
Thanks thrni who luul been her deliverers, 
And on she trudges through the desart woods, 
Climbs over craggy roeks, and mountains steep, 
Wades thorough rivers, struggles thorough bogs, 
Sustained only by the force of love ; 
Until she came unto the native plains. 
Unto the tields where first she drew her breath. 
There she lills up her eyes, salutes the air, 
Salutes the trees, the bushes, flow'rs and all : 
And, " Oh, dear Sirthis, here I am," said she, 
" Here, notwithstanding all my miseries, 
" I am the same I was to thee ; a pure, 
" A chaste, and spotless maid." 



ALAHAM : A TRAGEDY. BY FDLKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE. 

Alaham, second son to the Kin^ of Ornws, deposes his father ; irhose 
ei/es, and the ei/es of his elder brother Zojdii (artins; vpon a maxim of 
Oriental Pol icfi), he causes to be put oat They, blind, and fearing 
for their lives, trander about. In this ejtreniiti/ they are separately 
met by the Kings daughter drlica, who conducts them to a place of 
refuge; hiding her father amid the tuiults of a temple, and guiding 
her brother to take sanctuary at the altar. 

King. C^elica. 

King, Civliea ; thou only child, whom I repent 
Not yet to have begot, thy work is vain: 
Thou run'st against my destiny's intent. 
Fear not my fall ; the steep is fairest plain ; 
And error safest guide unto his end, 
Who nothing but mischance can have to friend. 
We parents are but nature's nursery ; 
When our succession springs, then ripe to fall. 
Privation unto age is natural. 
Age there is also in a prince's state, 



ALAHAM. 35 

Wliich is contempt, grown of misgovernment ; 

Where love of cliango begcttetli princes' hate : 

For hopes must wither, or grow violent, 

If fortune bind desires to one estate. 

Then mark ! Blind, as a man : scora'd, as a king , 

A fatlier's kindness loath'd, and desolate : 

Life witflout joy, or light :• what can it bring, 

But inward horror unto outward hate ? 

O safety ! thou art then a hateful thing. 

When children's death assures the father's state. 

No, safe I am not, though my son were slain, 

My frailty would beget such sons again. 

Besides, if fatal be the heavens' will, 

Repining adds more force to destiny ; 

Whose iron wheels stay not on fleshly wit. 

But headlong run down steep necessity. 

And as in danger, we do catch at it 

That comes to help ; and unadvisedly 

Oft do our friends to our misfortune knit : 

So with the harm of those who would us good 

Is destiny impossibly withstood. 

Caelica, then cease ; importune me no more : 

My son, my age, the state where things are now, 

Require my death. Who would consent to live 

Where love cannot revenge, nor truth forgive ? 

Ccelica. Though fear see nothing but extremity, 
Yet danger is no deep sea, but a lord, 
Where they that yield can only drowned be. 
In wrongs, and wounds, Sir, you are too remiss. 
To thrones a passive nature fatal is. 

King. Occasion to my son hath turn'd lier face ; 
My inward wants all outward strengths betray ; 
And so make that impossible I may. 

Ccelica. Yet live : 
Live for the state. 

King. Whose ruins glasses are, 
Wherein see errors of myself I must, 
And hold my life of danger, shame, and care. 



36 ENGLISH DKAxMATIC POETS. 



CcvKca. When fear propounds, witli loss men ever choose. 

King. Nothing is left nic but myself to lose. 

Calica. And is it nothing then to lose the state ? 

King. Where chance is ripe, there counsel comes too late. 
CiT'lica, by all thou ow'st tlio gods and me, 
I do conjure thee, leave me to my chance. 
What's past was error's way ; the truth it is, 
Wherein I wretch can only go amiss. 
U nature saw no cause of sudden ends. 
She, that but one way made to draw our breath, 
Would not have lefl so many doors to death. 

Ccc/ica. Yet, Sir, if weakness be not such a sand 
As neither wrong nor counsel can manure ; 
Choose and resolve what death you will endure. 

King. This sword, thy hands, may oiler up my breath 
And plague my life's remissness in my death. 

Cccl/ca. Unto that duty if these hands be born, 
I must think God, and truth, were names of scorn. 
Again, this justice were if life were loved. 
Now merely grace ; since death doth but forgive 
A life to you, which is a death to live. 
Pain must displease that satislies offence. 

King. Chance hath left death no more to spoil but sense. 

Cctlica. Then sword, do justice' office thorough me : 
I ofler more than that he h.ates to thee. 

[Of ers to kill herself. 

King. Ah ! stay thy hand. My state no equal hath. 
And much more matchless my strange vices be : 
One kind of death becomes not thee and me. 
Kings' plagues by chance or destiny should fall ; 
Headlong he perish must that ruins all. 

Ccelica. No clill' or rock is so precipitate, 
But down it eyes can lead the blind away ; 
Without me live, or with me die you may. 

King. Ctelica, and wilt thou Alaham exceed ? 
His cruelty is death., you torm. iits use ; 
He takes my crown, you take myself fr(>m me ; 
A prince of this fal!"n cuipire let me be. 



ALAHAM. 37 



Ccdica. Then be a king, no tyrant of thyself: 
Be : and be what you will : what nature lent 
Is still ill hers, and not our {jjovoniinont. 

King. If disobedience, and obedience both, 
Still do nie hurt ; in what strange state am I ? 
But hold thy course : it well becomes my blood, 
To do their parents mischief with their good. 

Cfrlica. Yet, Sir, hark to thij poor oppressed tears 
The just men's moan, that suller by your fall ; 
A prince's charge is to protect them all. 
And shall it nothing be that I am yours ? 
The world without, my heart within, doth know, 
[ never had unkind, uiirevcrcnt powers. 
If thus you yield to Alaham's treachery, 
He ruins you : 'tis you, Sir, ruin me. 

King. Ca^lica, call up the dead ; awake the blind ; 
Turn back the time ; bid winds tell whence they come: 
As vainly strength speaks to a broken mind. 
Fly from me, Cailica, hate all I do : 
Misfortunes have in blood successions too. 

Ccelica. Will you do that which Alaham cannot ? 
[le hath no good ; you have no ill, but he : 
This mar-right yielding 's honor's tyranny. 

King. Have I not done amiss ? am [ not ill, 
That ruin'd have a king's authority ? 
And not one king alone : since princes all 
Feel part of those scorns, whereby one doth fall. 
Treason against me cannot treason be : 
All laws have lost authority in me. 

Ccelica. The laws of power chain'd to men's humors be. 
The good have conscience ; the ill (like instruments) 
Are, in the hands of wise authority, 
Moved, divided, used, or laid down ; 
Still, with desire, kept subjrct to a crown. 
Stir up all states, all spirits : hope and fear. 
Wrong and revenge, are current everywhere. ^^^ 

King. Put down my son : for that must be the way : ^ 

A father's shame ; a prince's tyranny : 



38 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS 

The sceptre ever shall niisjiuli^ed be. 

Ccclica. Let ihem fear rumor that do work amiss ; 
Blood, torments, death, horrors of cruelty. 
Have time, and ])lace. Look through these skins of fear, 
Which still persuade the better side to bear. 
And since thy son thus trail'rously conspires, 
Let liim not prey on all thy race, and thee : 
Keep ill example from posterity. 

King. Danger is come, and must I now unarm, 
And let in hope to weaken resolution ? 
Passion ! be thou my legacy and will ; 
To tliee 1 give my life, crown, reputation ; 
My pomps to cloud ; and (as forlorn with men) 
My stnMigth to vvoukmi ; hoping this alone. 
Though Cear'd, sought, and a king, to live unknown. 
Ciulica, all these to thee ; do thou bestow 
This living darkness, wherein I do go. 

Ccelica. My soul now joys. Doing breathes horror out 
Absence must be our first step. Let us fly : 
A pause in rage makes Alaham to doubt ; 
Which doubt may stir in people hope, and fear. 
With love, or hate, to seek you everywhere. 
For princes' lives are fortune's misery : 
As dainty sparks, which till men dead do know, 
To kindle for hin)self each man doth blow. 
l?ut hark ! what's this ? Malice doth never sleep : 
I hear the spies of power drawing near. 
Sir, follow me : Misfortune's worst is come ; 
Her strength is changed : and change yields better doom. 
Clioice now is past. Hard by there is a pile. 
Built under color of a sacrifice ; 
If (jod do grant, it is a place to save ; 
If God denies, it is a ready grave. 

ZoPHi appears. 

Co'lica. What see I here ? more spectacles of woe! 
And are my kindred only made to be 
Agents and patients in iniquity ? 



ALAllAM. 38 

Ah forlorn wretch ! ruin's example right ! 

Lost to thyself, not to thy eiiotny, 

Whose hand even while thou lliest thou fall'st into ; 

And with thy fall thy lather dost undo. 

Save one I may : Nature would save them both ; 

But Chance hath many wheels, Rage many eyes. 

What, shall I then abandon Innocents?* 

Not help a helpless brother thrown on me ? 

Is nature narrow to adversity ? 

No, no. Our God left duty for a law ; 

Pity, at large ; love, in authority ; 

Despair, in bonds; fear, of itself in awe : 

That rage of time, and power's strange liberty, 

Oppressing good men, might resistance find : 

Nor can I to a brother be less kind. 

],)ost thou, that canst not sec, hope to escape ? 

Disgrace can have no friend ; contempt no guide ; 

Riglit is thy guilt ; thy judge inicjuity ; 

Which desolation casts on them that see. 

Zophi. Make calm thy rage : pity a ghost distrest : 
My right, my liberty, I freely give : 
Give him, tiiat never harm'd thee, leave to live. 

CceUca. Nay, God, the world, thy parents it deny ; 
A brother's jealous heart; usurped might 
Grows friends with all the world, except thy right. 
Zophi. Secure thyself. Exile me from this coast: 

My fault, suspicion is ; my judge, is fear ; 

Occasion, with myself, away I bear. 

Cadica. Fly unto God : for in humanity 

Hope there is none. Reach me thy fearful hand : 

1 am thy sister ; neither fiend, nor spy 

Of tyrant's rage ; but one that feels despair 

Of thy estate, which thou dost only fear. 

Kneel down ; embrace this holy mystery ; 

A refuge to the worst for rape and blood, 

And yet, I fear, not hallow 'd for the good. 

• Zophi is represented a« a prince of weak understanding. 



40 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Zophi. Help, God ! defend thine altar ! since thy might, 
In earth, leaves innocents no other right. 

Calica. Eternal God ! that see'st thyself in us, 
If vows be more than sacrifice of lust, 
Rais'd from the smokes of hope and fear in us. 
Protect this Innocent, calm Alaham's rage ; 
By miracles faith goes from age to age. 
Affection trembles ; reason is opprest ; 
Nature, methinks, doth her own entrails tear ; 
In resolution ominous is fear. 

Jildham, causes Search to be made after his Father and Brother. Zophi 
is discovered, and Ccelica ; who, being questioned by Alaham where she 
has hid her Father, dissembles as though she thought that the King was 
dead ; but being threatened loith the rack, her Exclamations call her 
Father from his hiding-place ; toho, together ivith her, and her Brother 
Zophi, aresentenced by Alaham to the Flames 

Alaham. Attendants. 
Alaham. Sirs, seek the city, examine, torture, rack ; 
Sanctuaries none let there be ; make darkness known ; 
Pull down tlie roofs, dig, burn, put all to wrack ; 
And let the guiltless for the guilty groan. 
Change, shame, misfortune, in their 'scaping lie, 
And in their finding our prosperity. 

He sees Ccelica. 
Good fortune welcome ! We have lost our care, 
And found our loss : Cselica distract I see. 
The king is near : She is her father's eyes. 

He sees Zophi. 
Behold ! the forlorn wretch, half of my fear. 
Takes sanctuary at holy altar's feet : 
Lead him apart, examine, force, and try ; 
These bind the subject not the monarchy. 
Cselica ! awake : that God of whom you crave 
Is deaf, and only gives men what they have. 

Ccdica. Ah cruel \v'retch ! guilty of parent's blood ! 
Might I, poor innocent, my father free, 



ALAHAM. 41 

My murther yet were less impiety. 
But on ; devour : fear only to be good : 
Let us not scape : thy glory then doth rise, 
When thou at once thy house dost sacrifice. 

Alaham. Tell me where thy father is. 

Ccclica. O bloody scorn. 
Musi he be kill'd again that gave thee breath ? 
Is duty nothing else in thee but death ? 

Alaham. Leave off this mask ; deceit is never wise ; 
Though he be blind, a king hath many eyes. 

Cculica. O twofold scorn ! God be reveng'd for me. 
Yet since my father is destroy'd by thee, 
Add still more scorn, it sorrow multiplies. 

Alaham. Passions are learn'd, not born within the heart, 
That method keep : Order is quiet's art. 
Tell where he is : for look what love conceals, 
Pain out of nature's labyrinths reveals. 

Cculica. This is reward which tliou dost threaten me 
If terror thou wilt threaten, promise joys 

Alaham. Smart cools these boiling styles of vanity. 

Ccelica. And if my father I no more shall see, 
Help me unto the place where he remains : 
To hell below, or to the sky above, 
The way is easy where the guide is love. 

Alaham. Confess ; where is he hid 1 

Ccelica. Rack not my woe. 
Thy glorious pride of this unglorious deed 
Doth mischief ripe, and therefore falling, show. 

Alaham. Bodies have place, and blindness must be led 
Graves be the thrones of kings when they be dead. 

Ccdica. He was (unhappy) cause that thou art now ; 
Thou art, ah wi5ked ! cause that he is not. 
And fear'st thou parricide can be forgot ? 
Bear witness, though Ahniglity God on high, 
And you black powers inhabiting below, 
That for his lite myself would yield to die. 

Alaham. Well, Sirs, go seek the dark and secret caves, 
The holy temples, sanctified cells, 



42 .NGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



All parts wherein a living corpse may dwell. 

CoRlica. Seek him amongst the dead, you placed him there 
Yet lose no pains, good souls, go not to hell ; 
And, but to heaven, you may go everywhere. 
Guihy, with you, of his blood let me be, 
If any more I of my father know, 
Than that he is where you would have him go. 

Alaham. Tear up the vaults. Behold her agonies ! 
Sorrow subtracts, and multiplies, the spirits ; 
Care, and desii-e, do under anguish cease ; 
Doubt curious is, affecting piety ; 
Woe loves itself; fear from itself would fly. 
Do not these trembling motions witness bear. 
That all these protestations be of fear ? 

Ccrlica. If aught be quick in me, move it with scorn ; 
Nothing can come amiss to thoughts forlorn. 

Alaham. Confess in time. Revenge is merciless. 

Ccelica. Reward and pain, fear and desire too, 
Are vain in things impossible to do. 

Alaham. Tell yet where thou thy father last did see. 

Ccelica. Even where he by his loss of eyes hath won 
That he no more shall see his monstrous son. 
First in perpetual night thou mad'st him go ; 
His flesh the grave ; his life the stage, where sense 
Plays all the tragedies of pain and woe. 
And wouldst thou Irait'rously tliyself exceed, 
By seeking thus to make his gliost to bleed ? 

Alaham. Bear her away : devise ; add to the rack 
Torments, that both call death and turn it back. 

Ccelica. The flattering glass of power is others' pain. 
Perfect thy work ; that heaven and hell may know, 
To worse I cannot, going from thee, go. • 

Eternal life, that ever liv'st above ! 
If sense there be with thee of hate, or love ; 
Revenge my king and father's overthrow. 
O father ! if that name reach up so high. 
And be more than a proper word of art, 
To teach respects in our humanity ; 



ALAHAM. 43 



Accept these pains, whereof you feel no smart. 

The King comes forth. 

King. What sound is this of Cselica's distress ? 
Alaham, wrong not a silly sister's faith. 
'Tis plague enough that she is innocent ; 
My child, thy sister ; born (by thee and me) 
With shame and sin to have athnity. 
Break me ; I am the prison of thy thought : 
Crowns dear enough with father's blood are bought. 

Alaham. Now feel thou shalt, thou ghost unnatural, 
Those wounds which thou to my heart did'st give, 
When, in despite of God, this state and me. 
Thou did'st from death mine elder brother free. 
The smart of king's oppression doth not die : 
Time rusteth malice ; rust wounds cruelly. 

King. Flatter thy wickedness ; adorn thy rage ; 
To wear a crown, tear up thy father's age. 
Kill not thy sister : it is lack of wit 
To do an ill that brings no good with it. 

Alaham. Go, lead them hence. Prepare the funeral. 
Hasten the sacrifice and pomp of woe. 
Where she did hide him, thither let them go. 

A J\runtius {or Messenger) relates to Alaham the manner of his 
Father's, Brother's, and Sister's deaths; and the popular discontents 
which followed. Alaham by the sudderi working of Remorse is dis- 
tracted, and imagines that he sees their Ghosts. 

Alaham. Nuntius. 

Nuntius. The first which burnt, as Cain* his next of kin. 
In blood your brother, and your prince in state, 
Drew wonder from men's hearts, brought horror in. 
This innocent, this soul too meek for sin, 
Yet made for others to do harm withal, 
With his self-pity tears drc.v tears from us ; 

' The execution, to make it plausible to the people, is colored with the 
pretext, that the being burnt is a voluntary sacrifice of themselves by the 
victims at the funeral of Cain a bashaw and relative. 



44 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

His blood compassion liad : his wrong stirr'd hate : 

Deceit is odious in a king's estate. 

Repiningly he goes unto liis end : 

Strange visions rise ; strange furies iiaunt the flame ; 

People cry out, Echo repeats, his naiiu". 

These words he spake, even breathing out his breath 

" Unhappy weakness ! never innocent ! 

" If in a crown, yet but an instrument. 

" People ! observe ; this fact may make you see, 

" Excess hath ruin'd uhat itself did build : 

" But ah ! the more opprest the more you yield." 

The next was He whose age had reverence, 

His gesture something more than privateness ; 

Guided by One, whose stately grace did move 

Compassion, even in hearts that could not love. 

As soon as these approached near tiie flame, 

The wind, the steam, or furies, rais'd their veils ; 

And in their looks this image did appear : 

Each unto other, life to neither, dear. 

These words he spako. " Behold one that iiath lost 

" Himself within ; and so the world witiiout ; 

" A king, that brings authority in doubt : 

" This is the fruit of power's misgovernment. 

" People ! my fall is just ; yet strange your fate, 

" That, under worst, will hope for better state." 

Grief roars aloud. Your sister yet rcmain'd ; 

Plelping in death to liim in whom she died ; 

Then going to her own, as if she gain'd. 

These mild words spake with looks to lieaven bent. 

" O God ! 'Tis thou that su{l''rest here, not we : 

'' Wrong doth but like itself in working thus: 

" At thy will, Lord ! revenge thyself, not us." 

The fire straight upward bears the souls in breath : 

Visions of horror circle in the flame 

With shapes and figures like to that of Death, 

But lighter- tongued and nimbler wing'd than Fame : 

Some to the church ; some to the people fly : 

A voice cries out ; " revenge and liberty. 



MUSTAPHA. 4j 



" Princes, take heed ; your glory is your care ; 

" And power's foundations, strengths, not vices, are." 

Alaham. What change is this, that now I feel within ? 
Is it disease that works this fall of spirits ? 
Or works this fall of spirits my disease ? 
Things seem not as they did ; horror appears. 
What Sin embodied, what strange sight is this? 
Doth sense bring back but what within me is ? 
Or do I see those shapes which haunt the flame ? 
What summons up remorse ? Shall conscience rate 
Kings' deeds, to make them less than their estate ? 
Ah silly ghost ! is 't you that swarm about ? 
Would'st thou, that art not now, a father be ? 
These body laws do with the life go out. 
What thoughts be these that do my entrails tear ? 
You wand'ring spirits frame in me your hell ; 
I feel my brother and my sister there. 



MUSTAPHA : A TRAGEDY. BY FULKE GREVILLE, LORD 
BROOKE. 

Jiossa, Wife to Solyman, the TurJnsh Emptror, persuades her Husband, 
that Mttstapha, his Son by a former Marriage, and Heir to his Crown, 
seeks his life : that she may make way, by the death of Mustapha, for 
the advancement of her own children, Zanger and Camena. Camena, 
the virtuous Daughter of Rossa, defends the Innocence of Mustapha, 
in a Conference which she holds with the Emperor. 

Camena. Solyman. 

Cam. They that from youth do suck at fortune's breast 
And nurse their empty hearts with seeking higher. 
Like dropsy. fed, their tliirst doth never rest ; 
For still, by getting, they beget desire : 
Till thoughts, like wood, while they maintain the flame 
Of high desires, grow ashes in the same. 
But virtue! those that c?n behold thy beauties. 



46 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Those that suck, from their youth, thy milk of goodness, 
Their minds grow strong against the storms of fortune, 
And stand, like rocks in winter-gusts, unshaken ; 
Not with the blindness of desire mistaken. 

virtue therefore ! whose thrall I think fortune. 
Thou who despisest not the sex of women, 
Help me out of these riddles of my fortune. 
Wherein (methinks) you with yourself do pose me ; 
Let fates go on : sweet virtue ! do not lose me. 

My mother and my husband have conspired. 
For brother's good, the ruin of my brother : 
My father by my mother is inspired, 
For one child to seek ruin of another. 

1 that to help by nature am required. 

While I do help, must needs still hurt a brother. 

While I see who conspire, I seem conspii'ed 

Against a husband, father and a mother. 

Truth bids me run, by truth I am retired ; 

Shame leads me both the one way, and the other. 

In what a labyrinth is honor cast, 

Drawn divers ways with sex, with time, with state, 

In all which, error's course is infinite. 

By hope, by fear, by spite, by love, and hate ; 

And but one only way unto the right, 

A thorny way, where pain must be the guide. 

Danger the light, otlence of power the praise : 

Such are the golden hopes of iron days. 

Yet virtue, I am thine, for thy sake grieved 

(Since basest thoughts, for their ill-plac'd desires. 

In shame, in danger, death, and torment, glory) 

That I cannot with more pains write thy story. 

Chance, therefore, if thou scornest those that scorn thee ; 

Fame, if thou hatest those that force thy trumpet 

To sound aloud, and yet despise thy sounding; 

Laws, if you love not those that be examples 

Of nature's laws, whence you are fall'n corrupted ; 

Conspire that I, against you all conspired, 

Joined with tyrant virtue, as you call her, 



MUSTAPHA. 47 



That I, by your revenges may be named, 

For virtue, to be ruin'd, and defamed. 

My mother oft and diversly I warned, 

What fortunes were upon such courses builded : 

That fortune still must be with ill maintained, 

Wliieh at the first with any ill is gained. 

I Rosten* vvarn'd, that man's self-loving thought 

Still creepeth to the rude-embracing might 

Of princes' grace : a lease of glories let, 

Which shining burns ; breeds serenes when tis set. 

And, by this creature of my mother's making, 

This messenger, I Mustapha have warn'd, 

That innocence is not enough to save, 

Where good and greatness, fear and envy have. 

Till now, in reverence I have forborn 

To ask, or to presume to guess, or know 

My father's thoughts ; whereof he might think scorn : 

For dreadful is that power that all may do ; 

Yet they, that all men fear, are fearful too. 

Lo where he sits ! Virtue, work thou in me. 

That what thou seekest may accomplish'd be. 

Soli/m. Ah death ! is not thyself sufficient anguish, 
But thou must borrow fear, that threatning glass, 
Which, while it goodness hides, and mischief shows. 
Doth lighten wit to honor's overthrows ? 
But hush ! methinks away Camena steals ; 
Murther, belike, in me itself reveals, 
Camena ! whither now ? why haste you from me ? 
Is it so strange a thing to be a father ? 
Or is it I that am so strange a father ? 

Cam. My lord, methought, nay, sure I saw you busy : 
Your child presumes, uncall'd, that comes unto you, 

Sofym. Who may presume with fathers, but their own, 
Whom nature's law hath ever in protection. 
And gilds in good belief of dear affection ? 

Cfi/n. Nay, reverence. Sir, so children's worth doth hide, 

* Her Husband. 



48 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

As of the fathers it is least espy'd. 

Solym. I think 'tis true, who know their children least, 
Have greatest reason to esteem them best. 

Cam. How so, my lord ? since love in knowledge lives, 
Which unto strangers therefore no man gives. 

Sohjm. The life we gave them soon they do forget, 
While they think our lives do their fortunes let. 

Cam. Tiie tenderness of life it is so great, 
As any sign of death we hate too much ; 
And unto parents sons, perchance, are such. 
Yet nature meant her strongest unity 
Twixt sons and fathers ; making parents cause 
Unto the sons, of their humanity ; 
And children pledge of their eternity. 
Fathers should love this image in their sons. 

Solym. But streams back to their springs do never run. 

Cam. Pardon, my lord, doubt is succession's foe : 
Let not her mists poor children overthrow. 
Though streams from springs do seem to run away, 
Tis nature leads them to their mother sea. 

Solym. Doth nature teach them, in ambition's strife, 
To seek his death, by whom they have their life ? 

Cam. Things easy, to desire impossible do seem : 
Why should fear make impossible seem easy ? 

Solym. Monsters yet be, and being are believed. 

Cam.. Incredible hath some inordinate progression: 
Blood, doctrine, age, corrupting liberty, 
Do all concur, where men such monsters be. 
Pardon me, Sir, if duty do seem angry : 
Affection must breathe out afflicted breath, 
Where imputation hath such easy faith. 

Solym. Mustapha is he that hath defil'd his nest ; 
The wrong the greater for I loved him best. 
He hath devised that all at once should die. 
Rosten, and Rossa, Zanger, thou and I. 

Cam. Fall none but angels suddenly to hell ? 
Are kind and order grow n precipitate ? 
Did ever anv otluM" man but he 



MUSTAPHA. 49 



In instant lose the use of domg well ? 

Sir, these be msts of greatness. Look again : 

For kings that, in their fearful icy state, 

Behold their children as their winding-sheet, 

Do easily doubt ; and what they doubt, they hate. 

Solym. Camena ! thy sweet youth, that knows no ill, 
Cannot believe thine elders, when they say, 
That good belief is great estates' decay. 
Let it suflicc, that I, and Rossa too, 
Are privy what your brother means to do. 

Cam. Sir, pardon me, and nobly, as a father, 
What I shall say, and say of holy mother; 
Know I shall say it, but to right a brother. 
My mother is your wife : duty in her 
Is love : she loves : which not well govern'd, bears 
The evil angel of misgiving fears ; 
Whose many eyes, whilst but itself they see. 
Still makes the worst of possibility : 
Out of this fear she Mustapha accuseth : 
Unto this fear, perchance, she joins the love 
Which doth in mothers for their children move. 
Perchance, when fear hath show'd her yours must fall, 
In love she sees that hers must rise withall. 
Sir, foar a frailty is, and may have grace, 
And over-care of you cannot be blamed ; 
Care of our own in nature hath a place ; 
Passions are oft mistaken and misnamed ; 
Things simply good grow evil with misplacing. 
Though laws cut off, and do not care to fashion, 
Humanity of error hath compassion. 
Yet God forbid, that either fear, or care, 
Should ruin those that true and faultless are. 

Solym. Is it no fault, or fault I may forgive, 
For son to seek the father should not live ? 

Cam. Is it a fault, or fault for you to know, 
My mother doubts a thing that is not so ? 
These ugly works of monstrous parricide, 
Mark from what hearts they rise, and where they bide . 
PART n. 5 



50 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Violent, despair'd, where honor broken is ; 
Fear lord, time death ; where hope is misery ; 
Doubt having stopt all honest ways to bliss ; 
And custom shut the windows up of shame, 
That craft may take upon her wisdom's name. 
Compare now Mustapha with this despair : 
Sweet youth, sure hopes, honor, a father's love, 
No infamy to move, or banish fear. 

Honor to stay, hazard to liasten fate : 

Can horrors work in such a child's estate ? 

Besides, the gods, whom kings should imitate, 

Have placed you high to rule, not overthrow ; 

For us, not for yourselves, is your estate : 

Mercy must hand in hand with power go. 

Your sceptre should not strike A\itli arms of fear, 

Which fathoms all men's imbecility, 

And mischief doth, lest it should mischief bear. 

As reason deals within with frailty. 

Which kills not passions that rebellious are, 

But adds, subtracts, keeps down ambitious spirits. 

So must power form, not ruin instruments : 

For flesh and blood, the means 'twixt heav'n and hell, 

Unto extremes extremely racked be ; 

Which kings in art of government should see : 

Else they, which circle in tliemselves with death, 

Poison the air wherein they draw their breath. 

Pardon, my lord, pity becomes my sex : 

Grace with delay grows weak, and fury wise. 

Remember Theseus' wish, and Neptune's haste, 

Kill'd innocence, and left succession waste. 

SoJi/m. If what were best for them that do ofTend, 
Laws did inquire, the answer must be grace. 
If mercy be so large, where 's justice' place ? 

Cam. Where love despairs, and where God's promise ends. 
For mercy is the highest reach of wit, 
A safety unto tliem that save with it : 
Born out of God, and unto human eyes. 
Like God, not scon, till fleshly passion dies. 



MUSTAPHA. 31 



Solpn. God may forgive, whose being, and whose harms 
Are far removed from reach of fleshly arms : 
But if God equals or successors had. 
Even God of safe revenges would be glad. 

Cam. While he is yet alive, he may be slain; 
But from the dead no flesh comes back again. 

Solym. While he remains alive, I live in fear. 

Catn. Though he were dead, that doubt still living wers. 

Solyin. None hath the power to end what he begun. 

Cam. The same occasion follows every son. 

Solym. Their greatness, or their worth, is not so much. 

Cam. And shall the best be slain for being such ? 

Solym. Thy mother, or thy brother, are amiss ; 
I am betray'd, and one of them it is. 

Cam. My mother if she errs, errs virtuously ; 
And let her err, ere Mustaplia should die. 

Solym. Kings for their safety must not blame mistrust. 

Cam. Nor for surmises sacrifice the just. 

Solym. Well, dear Camena, keep this secretly : 
I will bo well advised before he die. 

Heli a Priest acquaints Mustapha toith the intentions of his Father 
towatds him, and couitse/s him to seek his safety in the Destruction of 
JRossa and her Faction. Mustapha i-efuses to save his Life at the 
Expense of the Public Peace : and bcitig sent for by his Father, obeys 
the Mandate to his Destruction. 

Priest. Thy father purposeth thy death. 

Must. What have I to my father done amiss ? 

Priest. That wicked Rossa thy step-mother is. 

Must. Wherein iiave I of Rossa ill-deserved? 

Priest, la Miat the empire is lor thee reserved. 

Mu.Ht. Is it a fault to be my father's son ? 
Ah Ibul ambition ! which like water floods 
Not channel-bound dost neighbors over-run, 
And growcst nothing when thy rage is done. 
Must Rossa's heirs out of my ashes rise ? 
Yet, Zanger, I acquit thee of my blood ; 
For I believe, thy h^art hath no impression 
To ruin Mustapha hr his succession. 



59 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



But tell what colors they against me use, 

And how my father's love they first did wound ? 

Priest. Of treason towards him they thee accuse ; 
Thy fame and greatness gives their malice ground. 

]\ri!st. Good world, where it is danger to be good ! 
Vet grudge I not power of myself to power : 
This baseness only in mankind I blame, 
That indignation should give laws to fame. 
Show me the truth. To what rules am I bound ? 

Priest. No man commanded is by God to die, 
As long as ho may persecution fly. 

Must. To fly, hath scorn, it argues guiltiness, 

Inherits fear, weakly abandons friends. 

Gives tyrants fame, takes honor from distress 

Death do thy worst ! thy greatest pains have end. 

Priest. Mischief is like the cockatrice's eyes, 
Sees first, and kills ; or is seen first, and dies. 
Fly to thy strength, which makes misfortune vain. 
Rossa intends thy ruin. What is she ? 
Seek in her bowels for thy father lost : 
Who can redeem a king with viler cost ? 

Must. O false and wicked colors of desire ! 
Eternal bondage unto him that seeks 
To be possest of all things that he likes ! 
Shall I, a son and subject, seem to dare, 
For any selfiiess, to set realms on fire ; 
Which golden titles to rebellions are ? 
Hcli, even you have told me, wealth was given 
The wicked, to corrupt themselves and others ; 
Greatness and health to make flesh proud and cruel, 
Wliore in the good, sickness mows down desire, 
Death glorifies, misfortune humbles. 
Since therefore life is but the throne of woe, 
Which sickness, pain, desire, and fear inherit, 
Pver most worth to men of weakest spirit ; 
Shall we, to languish in this brittle jail, 
Seek, by ill deeds, to shun ill destiny : 
And so. for toys, lose immortality ? 



MUSTAPHA. 53 



Priest. Fatal necessity is never known 
Until it strike ; and till that blow be come, 
Who falls is by false visions overthrown. 

Must. Blasphemous love ! safe conduct of the ill ! 
What power hatii given man's wickedness such skill 1 

Priest. Ah servile man ! how are your thoughts bewitch'd 
With hopes and fears, the price of your subjection, 
That neither sense nor time can make you see, 
The art of power Mill leave you notliing free ! 

Must. Is it in us to rule a Sultan's will ? 

Priest. We made them first for good, and not for ill. 

Must. Our Gods they are, their God remains above. 
To think against anointed power is death. 

Priest. To worship tyrants is no work of faith. 

Must. "Tis rage of folly that contends with fate. 

Priest. Yet hazard something to preserve the state. 

Must. Sedition wounds what should preserved be. 

Priest. To wound power's humors, keeps their honors free. 

Must. Admit this true : what sacrifice prevails ? 

Priest. Force the petition is that never fails. 

Must. Where then is nature's place for innocence? 

Priest. Prosperity, that never makes offence. 

Must. Hath destiny no wheels but mere occasion ? 

Priest. Could east upon the west else make invasion ? 

Must. Confusion follows where obedience leaves. 

Priest. The tyrant only that event deceives. 

Must. And are the ways of truth and honor such ? 

Priest. Weakness doth ever think it owes too much. 

Must. Hath fame her glorious colors out of fear ? 

Priest. What is the world to him that is not there ? 

Must. Tempt me no more. Good-will is then a pain, 
When her words beat the heart and cannot enter. 
I constant in my counsel do remain. 
And more lives for my own life will not venture. 
My fellows, rest : our Alcoran doth bind, 
That 1 alone should first mv father find. 



64 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

A Messenger enters. 

Messenger. Sire, by our lord's commandment, here I wait, 
To guide you to his presence, 
Where, like a king and father, he intends 
To honor and acquaint you with his ends. 

Must. Heli, farewell, all fates are from above 
Chain'd unto humors that must rise or fall. 
Thinic what we will : men do but what they shall. 

Achmat describes the manner of Mustap/ia's Execution to Zanger 
AcHMAT. Zanger. 

Achn. When Solynian, by cunning spite 
Of Rossa's witchcrafts, from his heart had banish'd 
J ustice of kings, and lovingness of fathers, 
To wage and lodge such camps of heady passions, 
As that sect's cunning practices could gather; 
Envy took hold of worth : doubt did misconstrue ; 
Renown was made a lie, and yet a terror : 
Nothing could calm his rage, or move compassion : 
Mustaplia must die. To which end fetch'd he was, 
Laden with hopes and promises of favor. 
So vile a thing is craft in every heart, 
As it makes power itself descend to art. 
While Mustaplia, that neither hoped nor feared, 
Seeing the storms of rage and danger coming. 
Yet came ; and came accompanied with power. 
But neither power, which warranted his safety. 
Nor safety, that makes violence a justice, 
Could hold him from obedience to this throne : 
A gulph, which hath devoured many a one. 

Zang. Alas ! could neither truth appease his fury, 
Nor his unlook'd humility of coming, 
Nor any secret- witnessing remorses ? 
Can nature from herself make such divorces? 
Tell on, that all the world may rue and wonder. 

Achn. There is a place environed with trees, 
Upon whose shadow'd centre there is pitch'd 



MUSTAPHA. 55 



A large embroider'd sumptuous pavilion ; 

The stately throne of tyranny and murder; 

Where miglity men are slain, before they know 

That they to other than to honor go. 

Mustapha no sooner to the port did come 

But hither he is sent for and conducted 

By six slave eunuchs, either taught to color 

Mischief with reverence,, or forced, by nature, 

To reverence true virtue in misfortune. 

While Mustapha, whose heart was now resolved, 

Not fearing death, which he might have prevented ; 

Nor craving life, which he might well have gotten. 

If he would other duties have forgotten ; 

Yet glad to speak his last thoughts to his father, 

Desired the eunuchs to entreat it for him. 

They did ; wept they, and kneeled to his father. 

But bloody rage that glories to be cruel. 

And jealousy that fears she is not fearful, 

Made Solyman refuse to hear, or pity. 

He bids them haste their charge : and bloody-eyed 

Behold his son, while he obeying died. 

Zang. How did that doing heart endure to suffer ? 
Tell on. 

Quicken my powers, harden'd and dull to good, 
Which, yet unmoved, hear tell of brother's blood. 

Achm. While these six eunuchs to this charge appointed 
(Whose hearts had never used their hands to pity, 
Whose hands, now only, trembled to do murder) 
With reverence and fear stood still amazed ; 
Loth to cut off such worth, afraid to save it : 
Mustapha, with thoughts resolved and united. 
Bids them fulfil their charge and look no further. 
Their hearts afraid to let their hands be doing. 
The cord, that hateful instrument of murder. 
They lii'ting up let fall, and falling lift it : 
Each sought to help, and helping hinder'd other. 
Till Mustapha, in haste to be an angel. 
With heavenly smiles, and quiet words, foreshows 



56 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



The joy and peace of those souls where he goes. 
His last words wei'e ; '•' O father now forgive me ; 
" Forgive them too that wrought my overthrow : 
*' Let my grave never minister olTcnces. 
" For since my father coveteth my death, 
" Beliokl with joy I offer him my breath." 
Tlie eunuchs roar : Solyman his rage is glutted : 
His thoughts divine of vengeance for this murder : 
Rumor tYies up and down : the people murmur : 
Sorrow gives laws before men know the truth : 
Fear prophecieth aloud, and threatens ruth. 

Rosten describes to Achinnt the popular Fury which followed upon the 
Execution ofMustapha. 

Rosten. Achmat. 

Ros. When Musiapha was by the eunuchs stranglea. 
Forthwith his camp grew doubtful of liis absence : 
The guard of Solyman himself did murmur : 
People began to searcli their prince's counsels : 
Fury gave laws : the laws of duty vanisht. 
Kind fear of him they lov'd self-fear had banisht. 
The luadlong spirits were the heads that guided : 
He that most disobeyed, was most obeyed. 
Fury so suddenly became united, 
As v.hilo her forces nourished confusion. 
Confusion secm'd with discipline delighted. 
Tow ards Solyman they run : and as the waters, 
That meet with banks of snow, makes snow grow water : 
So, even those guards, that stood to interrupt them, 
Give easy passage, and pass on amongst them. 
Solyman, who saw this storm of mischief coming, 
Tln"iiks absence his best argument unto them : 
Retires himself, and sends me to demand, 
What they demanded, or what meant their coming ? 
I speak : they cry'd for Mustapha and Achmat. 
Some bid away ; some kill ; some save ; some hearken. 
Those that cried save, wer "> those tluit sought to kill me. 
Who cried hark, were those that first brake silence : 



MUSTAPIIA. 57 



They held that bade me go. Humility was guilty ; 
Words were reproach ; silence in me was scornful ; 
They answer'd ere they ask'd ; assured, and doubted. 
I fled ; their fury follow 'd to destroy me ; 
Fury made haste ; haste multiplied their fury ; 
Each would do all ; none would give place to other. 
The hindmost strake ; and while the foremost lifted 
Their arms to strike, each weapon hinder'd other : 
Their running let their strokes, strokes let their running. 
Desire, mortal enemy to desire, 
Made them that sought my life, give life unto me. 

[These two Tragedies of Lord Brooke misyVit witli more propriety have 
been termed political treatises, than plays. Their author has strangely con- 
Srived to make passion, character and interest, of the highest order subser- 
vient to the expression of state dogmas and mysteries. He is nine parts 
Machiavel and Tacitus, for one part Sophocles or Seneca. In tliis writer's 
estimate of the faculties of his own mind, the understanding must have 
held a most tyrannical pre-eminence. Whether we look into his plays, or 
his most passionate love-poems, we shall find all frozen and made rigid with 
intellect. The finest movements of the human heart, the utmost grandeur 
of which the soul is capable, are essentially comprised in the actions and 
speeches of Caelica and Camena. Shakspeare, who seems to have had a 
peculiar delight in contemplating womanly perfection, whom for his many 
sweet images of female excellence all women are in an especial manner 
bound to love, has not raised the ideal of the female character higher than 
Lord Brooke in these two women has done. But it requires a study equiva- 
lent to the learning of a new language to understand their meaning when 
they speak. It is indeed hard to hit : 

Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day 
Or seven though one should musing sit. 

It is as if a being of pure intellect should take upon him to express the 
emotions of our sensitive natures. There would be all knowledge, but 
sympathetic expression would be wanting.] 



58 KNGJ.ISII PKAMATIO I'OKT.S. 



THE CASiE IS ALTERED. A COMEDY. BY HEN. .lONSON. 

The present Humor to be followed. 

AUKELiA, PiKEMXiiLLA, Sistcr s tJictr Mollicr hc/tig lately dead 

Aiir. Room ior a ea.so ofnialroiis, colorM l)lacl\ : 
How motlicrly my mother's death liath made us ! 
I wouhl I liad some gii'ls now to bring up ; 

I couhl make a wench so virtuous, 

She should say grace to every bii of meat, 
And gajie no wider than a wafer'.s thickness, 
And she should make French court'sies so most low 
That every touch should turn her over backward. 

Pliccii. Sister, these words become not your attire, 
Nor your estate ; our virtuous mother's death 
Should print more deep elleets ot" sorrow in us, 
Than may be worn out in so little time. 

Anr. Sister, i' faith you take too much tobacco, 
It makes you black within as you 're without. 
What, true-stitch sister, both your sides alike ! 
Bo of a slighter work ; for, of my word. 
You shall be sold as dear, or rather dearer. 
Will you bo bound to customs and to rites, 
Shed prolitable tears, -weep for advantage ; 
Or else do all things as you are inclined ? 
Eat when your stomach serves, saith the physician, 
Not at eleven and six. So, if your humor 
Be now ailected with this heaviness. 
Give it the reins, and spare not ; as I do 
In this my pleasurable appetite. 
It is Prrcisianisin to alter that, 
With austere judgment, that is giv'n by nature. 

1 wept (you saw) too, when my mother died ; 
For then 1 found it easier to do so, 

And fitter with my mode, than not to weep : 
But now 'tis otherwise. Another time 
Perhaps I shall have such deep thoughts of lier, 
That I shall weep afresh some twelvemonth hence ; 



THE CASE IS ALTERED. 09 



And I will \vo(^p, if I Ik> so dispos(!d ; 
And put on black as grimly then as now. — 
Lot the mind ^o still with the body's stature: 
Judgment is fit Cor judges ; give mo nature. 

Presentimtnt of 'I'l-fdchcry, vaiiis/iin^ at t/ir si^/it o/'tfie jirrsun susprcted 
Lord Paulo Faknkze. {Speaking In hi iiificl/' of Angeuo.) 

My thoughts ciuniot pro|)ose a reason 

Wiiy 1 .should fear or faint thus in my hopi's 

Of one so much endeared to my love : 

SoMK? s|)ark it is, kindled within the soul, 

Whoso light yet br(>aks not to the outward sense, 

That propagates (his timorous suspect. 

His actions never carried any force 

Of change, or weakness; then [ injure him, 

In being thus colil-conceiled of his liiilli. 

O here he conies. [ Wldlc lie speaks Angelo enters. 

Angela. How now, sweet Lord, what 's tl)e matter ? 

Paul. Good faith, his presence makes me half ashamed 
Of my stray'd thoughts. 

Jaqncs {a Miner) roorships his (,'o/d. 

Jac. Tis not to bo told 
What servile villainies men will do for gold. 

it began to have a huge strong smell, 
With lying so long together in a place: 

1 "11 give it vent, it shall have shift enough ; 
And if the devil, that envies all goodness. 
Have told them of my gold, and where I kept it, 
I Ml set his burning nose once more a work 

To smell where I removed it. Hero it is ; 

1 '11 hide and cover it with this horse-dung. 

Who will suppose that such a precious nest 

Is crown'd with such a dunghill excrement ? 

In, my dear life, sleep sweetly, my dear child. 

Scarce lawfully begotten, but yet gotten, 

And that 's enough. Rot all hands that come near thee, 

Except mine own. liuru out all eyes (hat s(!e thee. 



ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Except mine own. All thoughts of thee be poison 

To their enamor'd hearts, except mine own. 

I'll take no leave, sweet prince, gn^at emperor, 

But see thee every minute : king of kings, 

I '11 not be rude to thee, and turn my back 

In going from thee, but go backward out. 

With my face toward thee, with humble courtesies. 

[The passion for wealth has worn out much of its grossness by tract ol 
time. Our ancestors certainly conceived of money as able to confer a dis- 
tinct gratification in itself, not alone considered simply as a symbol of 
wealth. The oldest poets, when they introduce a miser, constantly make 
him address his gold as his mistress; as somctliing to be seen, felt, and 
hugged : as capable of satisfying two of the senses at least. The substitution 
of a thin unsatisfying medium for the good old tangible gold, has made ava- 
rice quite a Platonic aflection in comparison with the seeing, touching, and 
handling pleasures of the cdd Chrysophilites. A bank note can no more 
satisfy the touch of a true sensualist in this passion, than Creusa could 
return her husband's embrace in the shades. — See the Cave of Mammon, in 
Spenser ; Barabas's contemplation of his wealth, in the Jew of Malta ; Luke's 
raptures, in the City Madam, &c. Above all, hear Guzman, in that excel- 
lent old Spanish Novel, The Rogue, expatiate on the " ruddy cheeks 
of your golden Ruddocks, your Spanish Pistolets, your plump and full-faced 
Portuguese, and your clear-skinn'd pieces of eight of Castile," which 
he and his fellows the beggars kept secret to themselves, and did 
"privately enjoy in a plentiful manner." " For to have them, for to pay 
them away, is not to enjoy them ; to enjoy them, is to have them lying by 
us, having no other need of them than to use them for the clearing of the 
eye-sight, and the comforting of our senses. These we did carry about with 
us, sewing them in some patches of our doublets near unto the heart, and 
as close to the skin as we could handsomely quilt them in, liolding them 
to be restorative."] 



POETASTER; OR, HIS ARRAIGNMENT. A COMICAL SATYR. 
BY BEN JONSON. 

Ovid beu-ai/s his hard ccmdition in being banished from Court and the 
Societi/ of the Princess Julia. 

Ovid. 
Banish'd the court ? let me be banish'd life, 
Since the chief end of life is there concluded. 



POETASTER. 61 



Within tho court is all tho kingdom bounded ; 

And as her sacrod spliorc dolli coniprchond 

'Vvn thousand times so much, as so much place 

In any part of all the empire else, 

So every body, movinf;f in her sphere, 

Contains ton thousand times as much in him 

As any oIIkm* her clioicc orb excludes. 

As in a circle a magician, then, 

Is safe against tho spirit he excites, 

But out of it is subject to his rage, 

And losolh all the virtue of his art, 

So I, oxil'd the circle of tho court, 

Lose all the good gifts that in it I joy'd. 

No virtue current is, but witii her stamp ; 

And no vice vicious, blanch'd with her white hand. 

The court's the abstract of all Rome's desert. 

And my dear Julia th' abstract of the court. 

Methinks, now I come near her, I respire 

Some air of that late comfort I receiv'd : 

And while the evening, with her modest veil. 

Gives leave to such poor shadows as myself 

To steal abroad, T, like a heartless ghost. 

Without the living body of my love, 

Will here walk, and attend her. For I know 

Not far from hence she is imprison'd, 

And hopes of her strict guardian to bribe 

So much adniitlance, as to speak to me. 

And cheer my fainting spirits with her breath. 

Julia appears above at her Chamber-window. 

Jul. Ovid ! my love ! 

Ovid. Here, heav'nly Julia. 

Jul. Here ! and not here ! O how that word doth play 
With both our fortunes, differing, like ourselves ; 
But one, and yet divided, as opposed ; 
1 high, thou low ! O this our jjlight of place 
Doubly presents the two lets of our love. 
Local and ceremonial heiglit and lowness ; 



63 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Both ways, I am too high, and thou too low. 

Our minds are even, yet : O why should our bodies. 

That are their slaves, be so without their rule ? 

I '11 cast myself down to thee ; if I die, 

I '11 ever live witii tliee : no height of birth. 

Of place, of duty, or of cruel power. 

Shall keep me from thee ; should my father lock 

This body up within a tomb of brass, 

Yet I'll be with tliee. If the forms, I hold 

Now in my soul, be made one substance with it ; 

That soul immortal ; and the same 'tis now ; 

Death cannot raze the effects she now retaineth : 

And then may she be anywhere she will. 

The souls of parents rule not children's souls ; 

Wiien death sets both in their dissolv'd estates, 

Then is no child nor father : then eternity 

Frees all from any temporal respect. 

I come, my Ovid, take me in thine arms ; 

And let me breathe my soul into thy breast. 

Ovid. O stay, my love ; the hopes thou dost conceive 
Of thy quick death, and of thy future life, 
Are not authentical. Thou choosest death, 
So thou might'st joy thy love in tli' other life, 
But know, my princely love, when thou art dead, 
Thou only must survive in perfect soul ; 
And in the soul are no affections : 
We pour out our affections with our blood ; 
And with our blood's atlbctions fade our loves. 
No life hath love in such sweet state as this ; 
No essence is so dear to moody sense. 
As flesh and blood, whose quintessence is sense. 
Beauty, compos'd of blood and flesh, moves more, 
And is more plausible to blood and flesh, 
Than s]M ritual beauty can be to the spirit. 
Such apprehension as we iiave in dreams 
(When sleep, the bond of senses, locks them up) 
Such shall we have when death destroys them quite. 
If love be then thy object, change not life ; 



POETASTER. 63 



Live high aiiti happy still ; I still below, 
Close with my fortimos, in tiiy lioiifjit shall joy. 

Jul. Ay WW, thut virtiii', whose l)iav<> eagle's wings 
Willi every stroke blow stars in burning iusaven, 
Should like a swallow (|)reying toward storms) 
V\y close to earth ; and, with an eager plume 
Pursue those objects which none else can see, 
Hut seem to all the world the empty air. 
Thus thou, poor Ovid, and all virtuous men, 
Must prey like swallows on invisible Ibod ; 
Pursuing (lies, or nothing ; and thus love. 
And every worldly fancy, is IransposM 
By worldly tyranny to what plight it list. 
(), father, since thou gav'st nu; not my mind, 
Strive not to rule it ; take but what thou gav'st 
To thy disposure : thy affections 
Rule not in me ; I nmst bear all my griefs ; 
Let me use all my pleasures : Virtuous love 
Was never scandal to a goddess' state. 
But he 's inflexible ! and, my dear love. 
Thy life may chance be shorten'd by the length 
Of my unwilling s|)eeches to (le|)art. 
Farewell, sweet lite: though thou i)e y(;t exil'd 
Th' officious court, enjoy me amply still : 
My soul, in this my breath, enters thine ears ; 
And on this turret's floor will I lie dead, 
Till we may meet again. In this proud height, 
1 kneel beneath thee in my prostrate love, 
And kiss the hajjpy sands that kiss thy feet, 
Clreat Jove submits a sce|)tre to a cell ; 
And lovers, ere they part, will meet in hell. 

Uvid. Farewell all coiii[)any, and, if 1 could. 
All light, with thee : hell's shadi; should hide thy brows, 
Till thy dear beauty's beams rcdeem'd my vows. 

Jul. Ovid : my love : alas ! may wv. not stay 
A little longer, think'st thou, undiscern'd 1 

Oxnd. For thine own good, fair goddess, do not stay. 
VVJio would engage a firmament of fires, 



64 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Shining in thee, for me, a falling star ? 
Begone, sweet life-blood : if I should discern 
Thyself but touch'd for my sake, 1 should die. 

Jul. I will begone then ; and not heav'n itself 
Shall draw me back. 

Ovid. Yet, Julia, if thou wilt 
A little longer stay. 

Jul. I am content. 

Ovid. O mighty Ovid ! what the sway of heav'n 
Could not retire, my breath hath turned back. 

Jul. Who shall go first, my love ? my passionate eyes 
Will not endure to see thee turn from me. 

Ovid. If thou go first, my soul will follow thee. 

Jul. Then we nmst stay. 

Ovid. Ay me, there is no stay 
In amorous pleasures. If both stay, both die. 
I hear thy father. Hence, my deity, [Julia goes in. 

Fear forgeth sounds in my deluded ears ; 
I did not iiear him : I am mad with love. 
There is no spirit, under heav'n, that works 
With such illusion : yet, such witchcraft kill me, 
Ere a sound mind, without it, save my life. 
Here on my knees I worship the blest place, 
That held my goddess ; and the loving air, • 

That clos'd her body in Jiis silken arms. 
Vain Ovid ! kneel not to the place, nor air : 
She's in thy heart ; rise then, and worship there. 
The truest wisdom, silly men can have. 
Is dotage on the follies of tiieir flesh. 

.Augustus discourses with his Courtiers concerning Poetry. 

C^SAR, MECiENAS, GalLUS, TiBULLUS, HoRACE. 

Equites Romani. 
Cccs. We, that have conquer'd still to .save the conquer'd, 
And love to make inflictions fear'd, not felt ; 
Griev'd to reprove, and joyful to reward. 
More proud of reconcilement than revenge. 



POETASTER. flS 

Resume into tlic late state of our \o\r. 
Worlliy Cornelius Gallus and TibuUus.* 
You both arc gentlemen ; you Cornelius, 
A soldier of renown, and the first provost 
That ever let our Roman Eagles (ly 
On swarthy Egypt, quarried with her spoils. 
Yet (not to bear cold forms, nor men's out-terms, 
Without the inward fires, and lives of men) 
You both have virtues, siiininj^ throuifh your shapes; 
To show, your titles are not writ on posts, 
Or hollow statu(!S ; which the best men are, 
Without Promethean stuffings reach'd from heaven. 
Sweet Poesy's sacred garlands crown your gentry : 
Which is, of all the faculties on earth. 
The most abstract, and i)erfect, if she be 
True born, and nurst with all the sciences. 
She can so mould Rome, and lier monuments, 
Within tlu! liquid marble of her lines, 
That they shall stand fresh and miraculous, 
Even wlien they mix with innovating tlust ; 
In her sweet streams shall our brave Roman spirits 
Chase, and swim after death, with their choice deeds 
Sliining on their white shoulders ; and therein 
Shall Tyber, and our famous rivers, fall 
Willi sucli attraction, that th' uiribitious line 
Of the round world shall to her centre shrink, 
To hear their music. And for these high parts, 
CiFsar shall reverence the Pierian arts. 

Mcc. Your majesty's iiigli grace to poesy 
Shall stand 'gainst all the tluU detractions 
Of leaden souls ; who for the vain assumings 
Of some, quite worthless of her sovereign wreaths, 
Contain her worthiest prophets in contempt. 

Gai. Happy is Rome of all earth's other states, 
'l\) have so trui; and great a president, 
l''or her inferior spirits to imitate, 

• I'hc-y liad ofl'eiided the Emperor hy concealing the love of Ovid for the 
Frinccs3 Julia. 

PART 1!. 6 



66 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

A.S Caesar is ; who addeth to the sun 
Influence and lustre, in increasing thus 
His inspirations, kindling fire in us. 

Hor. Phoebus himself slmll kneel at Caesar's shrine 
And deck it with bay-garlands dew'd with wine, 
To quit the worship Caesar does to him : 
Where other princes, hoisted to their thrones 
By Fortune's passionate and disorder'd power, 
Sit in their height like clouds before the sun. 
Hind 'ring his comforts ; and (by their excess 
Of cold in virtue, and cross heat in vice) 
Thunder and tempest on those learned heads. 
Whom Cassar with such honor doth advance. 

Tib. All human business Fortune doth command 
Without all order ; and with her blind hand, 
She, blind, bestows blind gifts : that still have nurst, 
They see not who, nor how, but still the worst. 

Ca:s. Caesar, for his rule, and for so much stuff 
As fortune puts in his hand, shall dispose it 
(As if his hand had eyes, and soul, in it) 
With worth and judgment. Hands that part with gifts. 
Or will restrain their use, without desert. 
Or with a misery, numb'd to Virtue's right, 
Work, as they had no soul to govern them, 
And quite reject her : sev'ring their estates 
From human order. Whosoever can, 
And will not cherish Virtue, is no man. 

Eques. Virgil is now at hand, imperial Caesar. 

CcRS. Rome's honor is at hand then. Fetch a chair, 
And set it on our right-hand ; where 'tis fit, 
Rome's honor and our own should ever sit. 
Now he is come out of Campania, 
I doubt not he hath finish'd all his ^neids ; 
Which, like another soul, I long t' enjoy. 
What think you three of Virgil, gentlemen 
(That are of his profession though ranked higher), 
Or, Horace, what sayst thou, that art the poorest, 
And likeliest to envy or to detract ? 



POETASTER. G7 



Hor. Ccesar speaks after common men in this, 
To make a difference of me for my poorness : 
As if the filth of poverty sunk as deep 
Into a knowing spirit, as the bane 
Of riches doth into an ignorant soul. 
No, Coesar ; they be pathless moorish minds. 
That being once made rotten with the dung 
Of damned riches, ever after sink 
Beneath the steps of any villainy. 
But knowledge is the nectar, that keeps sweet 
A perfect soul, even in this grave of sin ; 
And for my soul, it is as free as Caesar's : 
For what I know is due I'll give to all. 
He that detracts, or envies virtuous merit, 
Is still the covetous and the ignorant spirit. 

C(BS. Thanks, Horace, for thy free and wholesome sharpness : 
Which pleaseth Ceesar more than servile fawns. 
A flatter'd prince soon turns the prince of fools. 
And for thy sake we'll put no difference more 
Between the great and good for being poor. 
Say then, loved Horace, thy true thought of Virgil. 

Hor. I judge him of a rectified spirit. 
By many revolutions of discourse 
(In his bright reason's influence) refined 
From all the tartarous moods of common men ; 
Bearing the nature and similitude 
Of a right heavenly body ; most severe 
In fashion and collection of himself: 
And then as clear and confident as Jove. 

Gal. And yet so chaste and tender is his ear, 
In suffering any syllable to pass, 
That he thinks may become the honor'd name 
Of issue to his so examined self; 
That all the lasting fruits of his full merit 
In his own poems, he doth still distaste ; 
As if his mind's piece, which he strove to paint. 
Could not with fleshly pencils have her riglit. 

Tib. But to approve his works of sovereign worth, 



68 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POEl'S. 



This observation (mothinks) more tiian serves ; 
And is not vulgar. That which he hath writ, 
Is witli such judgment labor'd, and distill'd 
Through all the needful uses of our lives, 
That could a man remember but his lines, 
He should not touch at any serious point, 
But he might breathe his spirit out of him. 

C(2S. You mean he might repeat part of his works, 
As fit for any conference he can use ? 

Tib. True, royal Caesar. 

Cixs. Worthily observed : 
And a most worthy virtue in his works, 
What thinks material Horace of his learning ? 

Hor. His learning savors not the school-like gloss, 
That most consists in echoing words and terms : 
And soonest wins a man an empty name : 
Nor any long, or far fetch'd circumstance, 
Wrapt in the curious general'tios of arts; 
But a direct and analytic sum 
Of all the worth and first effects of arts. 
And for his poesy, 'tis so ramui'd with life, 
That it shall gather strength of life, with being, 
And live hereafter more admired than now. 

CcBS. This one consent, in all your ilooms of him, 
And mutual loves of all your several merits. 
Argues a truth of merit in you all. 

ViKGiL enters. 

See here comes Virgil ; we will rise and greet him : 
Welcome to Caesar, Virgil. Caesar and Virgil 
Shall differ but in sound ; to Caesar, Virgil 
(Of his expressed greatness) shall be made 
A second sir-name ; and to Virgil, Caesar. 
Where arc thy famous yEneids ? do us grace 
To let us see, and surfeit on their sight. 

Vir. Worthless they are of Caesar's gracious eyes, 
If they were perfect ; much more with their wants : 
Which yet are more than my time could supply. 



POETASTER. 69 



And could great Csesar's expectation 
Be satisfied with any otiier service, 
I would not show them. 

Cces. Virgil is too modest ; 
Or seeks, in vain, to make our longings more. 
Show them, sweet Virgil. 

Vir. Then, in such due fear 
As fits presenters of great works to Caesar, 
I humbly show them. 

Cccs. Let us now behold 
A human soul made visible in life : 
And more refulgent in a senseless paper, 
Than in the sensual complement of kings. 
Read, read, thyself, dear Virgil ; let not me 
Profane one accent with an untuned tongue : 
Best matter, badly shown, shows worse than bad. 
See then this chair, of purpose set for thee. 
To read thy poem in ; refuse it not, 
Virtue, without presumption, place may take 
Above best kings, whom only she should make. 

Vir. It will be thought a thing ridiculous 
To present eyes, and to all future times 
A gross untruth ; that any poet (void 
Of birth, or wealth, or temporal dignity). 
Should, with decorum, transcend Coesar's chair. 
Poor virtue raised, high birth and wealth set under, 
Crosseth heav'n's courses, and makes worldlings wonder. 

Ccps. The course of heaven, and fate itself, in this 
Will Caesar cross ; much more all worldly custom. 

Hor. Custom in course of honor ever errs : 
And they are best, whom fortune least prefers. 

Ccps. Horace hath (but more strictly) spoke our thoughts. 
The vast rude swinge of general confluence 
Is, in particular ends, exempt from sense : 
And therefore reason (which in right should bo 
The special rector of all harmony) 
Shall show we are a man, distinct by it 
From those, whom custom rapteth in her press. 



70 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Ascend then, Virgil ; and where first by chance 
Wc here have turu'd tiiy book, do tliou first read. 

Vir. Great CoGsar hath his will : I will ascend. 
'Twere simple injury to his free hand, 
That swcrps the cobwebs from un-used virtue. 
And makes lier shine proportion'd to her worth, 
To be more nice to entcntain his grace. 
Than he is choice and liberal to aflbrd it. 

C(gs. Gentlemen of our chamber, guard the doors, 
And let none enter ; peace. Begin, good Virgil. 

VntGiL 7'cads ■part of his fourth Mncid. 
Vir. Meanwhile, the skies 'gan thunder, &c. 

[This Roman Play seems writlcn to cmitufi! those enemies of Ben. Jonson 
in his own days and ours, who iiuve said that lie made a pedantical use of 
his learning. Ho has here revived the whole court of Augustus, by u 
learned spell. We are admitted to the society of the illustrious dead. Vir- 
gil, Horace, Ovid, TibuUus, converse in our own tongue more linely and 

poetically than they expressed themselves in their native Latin. Nothing 

can be imagined more elegant, retined, and court-like than the scenes be- 
tween this Louis the fourteenth of Antiquity and his Literati. — The whole 
essence and secret of that kind of intercourse is contained therein. The 
economical liberality by which greatness, sei-ming to wave some part of its 
jjrerogative, takes care to lose none of the essentials ; the prudential liberties 
of an inferior which flatter by commanded boldness and soothe with compli- 
inental sincerity.] 



SE.rANUS IHS FALL: A TRAGEDY. BY BEN. JONSON. 

Sejanus, the morning he is condemned by the Senate, receives some tokens 
which jiresage his death. 

Sejanus. PoMroNUJS. MiNUTius. Terentius, &c. 

Ter. x\re these things true I 
Min. Thousands are gazing at it in the streets. 
Sej. What 's that ? 

Ter. Minutius tells us here, my Lord, 
That a new head being set upon your statue, 



SEJANUS HIS I ALL. 71 



A rope is since found wreath 'd al)out it ! and 

But now a iiery meteor in the form 

Of a great ball was seen to roll along 

The troubled air, where yet it hangs unperfect, 

The amazing wonder of the multitude. 

Scj. No more — 
Send fur the tribunes ; we will straight have up 
More of the soldiers for our guard. Minutius, 
We pray you go for Cotta, Latiaris, 
Trio the consul, or what senators 
You know are sure, and ours. You, my good Natta, 
For Laco provost of the watch. Now, Satrius, 
The time of proof comes on. Arm all our servants. 
And without tumult. You, Pomponius, 
I [old some good correspondence with the consul ; 
Attempt him, noble friend. These things begin 
To look like dangers, now, worthy my fates. 
Fortune, I sec thy worst : Let doubtful states 
And things uncertain hang upon thy will ; 
Me surest death shall render certain still. 
Yet why is now uiy thought turn'd toward death. 
Whom fates have let go on so far in breath 
Unche'^kt or unreprov'd ? I, that did luilp 
To fell the lofty cedar of the world, 
Germanicus ; that at one stroke cut down 
Drusus that upright elm ; wither'd his vine ; 
Laid Silius and Sabinus, two strong oaks, 
Flat on the earth ; besides those other shrubs, 
Cord us, and Sosia, Claudia, Pulchra, 
Furnius, and Gallius, which I have grubb'd up ; 
And since, have set my axe so strong and deep 
Into the root of spreading Agrippina ; 
Lopt off' and scatter'd her proud branches, Nero, 
Drusus, and Caius too, although replanted : 
If you will, destinies, that after all 
I faint now ere I touch my period. 
You are but cruel ; and I already havt; done 
Things great enough. All Rome hath been my slave; 



72 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

The senate sate an idle looker on, 

And witness of my power ; when I liave blush'd 

More to command, than it to suffer ; all 

The fathers have sate ready and prepar'd 

To give me empire, temples, or their throats. 

When I would ask 'em ; and (what crowns the top) 

Rome, senate, people, all tlie world, have seen 

Jove but my equal, Csesar but my second. 

'Tis then your malice, Fates, who (but your own) 

Envy and fear to have any powc long known. 



THE SAD SHEPHERD: OR, A TALE OF ROBIN HOOD. 
BY BEN. JONSON. 

Aiken, an old Shepherd, instructs Robin Hood's Men how to find a 
Witch, and hnw she is to be hunted. 

Robin Hood. Tuck. Little John. Scarlet. Scathlock. 
George. Alken. Clarion. 

Tuck. Hear you how 
Poor Tom, the cook, is taken ! all his joints 
Do crack, as if his limbs were ti^d with points : ' 

His whole frame slackens, and a kind of rack 
Runs down along the spondils of his back ; 
A gout, or cramp, now seizeth on his head, 
Then fall into his feet ; his knees are lead ; 
And he can stir his either hand no more 
Than a deal stump to his office, as before. 

Alk. He is bewitch'd. 

Cla. This is an argument 
Both of her malice, and her power, we see. 

Alk. She must by some device restrained be, 
Or she '11 go far in mischief. 

Rob. Advise how. 
Sage shepherd ; we shall put it straight in practice. 

Alk. Send forth your woodmen then into the walks, 
Or let them prick lier footing hence ; a witch 



SAD SHEPHERD. 73 



Is sure a creature of melancholy, 

And will be found, or sitting in her fourm, 

Or else at relief, like a hare. 

Cla. You speak, 
Aiken, as if you knew the sport of witch-hunting, 
Or starting of a hag. 

Rob. Go, Sirs, about it. 
Take George here with you, he can help to find her. 

John. Rare sport, I swear, this hunting of the witch 
Will make us. 

Scar. Let 's advise upon 't, like huntsmen. 

Geo. An we can spy her once, she is our own. 

Scaih. First think which way she fourmeth, on what wind : 
Or north, or south. 

Geo. For, as the shepherd said, 
A witch is a kind of hare. 

Scaih. And marks the weather. 
As the hare does. 

John. Where shall we hope to find her ? 

Alk. Know you the witches dell ? 

Scar. No more than I do know the walks of hell. 

Alk. Within a gloomy dimble she doth dwell, 
Down in a pit o'er grown with brakes and briars. 
Close by the ruins of a shaken abbey, 
Torn with an earthquake down unto the ground, 
'Mongst graves, and grots, near an old charnel house, 
Where you shall find her sitting in her fourm, 
As fearful, and melancholic, as that 
She is about ; with caterpillars' kells, 
And knotty cobwebs, rounded in with spells. 
Thence she steals forth to relief, in the fogs. 
And rotten mists, upon the fens and bogs, 
Down to the drowned lands of Lincolnshire; 
To make ewes cast their lambs, swine eat their farrow ! 
The house-wife's tun not work, nor the milk churn ! 
Writiie children's wrists, and suck their breath in sleep ! 
Get vials of their blood ! and where the sea 
Casts up liis slimy ooze, search for a weed 



74 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



To open locks with, and to rivet charms, 
Planted about her, in the wicked seat 
Of all her mischiefs, which are manifold. 

John. I wonder such a story could be told 
Of her dire deeds. 

Geo. I thought a witches banks 
Had enclosed nothing but the merry pranks 
Of some old woman. 

Scar. Yes, her malice more. 

Scath. As it would quickly appear, had we the store 
Of his collects. 

Geo. Aye, this good learned man 
Can speak her right. 

Scar. He knows her shifts and haunts. 

Alk. And all her wiles and turns. The venom'd plants 
Wherewith she kills ! where the sad mandrake grows. 
Whose groans are deathful ! the dead numbing night-shade ! 
The stupifying hemlock ! adder's-tongue, 
And martegan ! the shrieks of luckless owls, 
We hear ! and croaking night-crows in the air ! 
Green-bellied snakes ! blue fire-drakes in the sky ! 
And giddy flitter-mice with leather wings ! 
The scaly beetles, with their habergeons 
Tliat make a humming murmur as they fly ! 
There, in the stocks of trees, white fays do dwell, 
And span-long elves that dance about a pool, 
With each a little changeling in their arms ! 
The airy spirits play with falling stars, 
And mount the sphere of fire, to kiss the moon ! 
While she sits reading by the glow-worm's light. 
Or rotten wood, o'er which the worm hath crept. 
The baneful schedule of her nocent charms, 
And binding characters, through which she wounds 
Her puppets, the Sigilla of her witchcraft. 
All this 1 know, and I will find her for you ; 
And show you her silting in her fourm ; I '11 lay 
My hand upon her ; make her throw her scut 
Along her back, when she doth start before us. 



CATILINE. 



But you must give her law ; and you shall see her 
Make twenty leaps and doubles, cross the paths. 
And then squat down beside us. 

John. Crafty croan, 
I long to be at the sport, and to report it. 

Scar. We '11 make this hunting of the witch as famous, 
As any otiicr blast of venery. 

Geo. If we could come to see her, cry so haw once — 

Alk. That I do promise, or I 'm no good hag-finder. 



CATILINE HIS CONSPIRACY : A TRAGEDY. 
BY BEN. JONSON. 

The morning of the Conspiracy. — Lentulus, Cethegus, and Catiline 
meet, before the other Conspirators are ready. 

Lent. It is methinks a morning full of fate, 
It riseth slowly, as her sullen car 
Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it. 
She is not rosy-finger'd, but swoln black. 
Her face is like a water turn'd to blood, 
And her sick head is bound about with clouds, 
As if she threaten'd night ere noon of day. 
It does not look as it would have a hail 
Or health wish'd in it, as on other morns. 

Cet. Why, all the fitter, Lentulus : our coming 
Is not for salutation : we have business. 

Cat. Said nobly, brave Cethegus. Where's Autronius ? 

Cet. Is he not come ? 

Cat. Not here. 

Cet. Not Vargunteius 1 

Cat. Neither. 

Cet. A fire in their beds and bosoms. 
That so well serve their sloth rather than virtue. 
They are no Romans, and at such hinh need 
As now 

Lpnt. Both they, Longinus, Lecca, Curius, 



76 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Fulviup, GJabinus, gave me word last nighi,, 
By Lucius Bestia, they would all be here, 
And early. 

Cet. Yes ! as you, had I not call'd you. 
Conme, we all sleep, and are mere dormice ; flies 
A little less than dead : more dulness hangs 
On us tiian on the morn. We 're spirit bound, 
In ribs of ice ; our whole bloods are one stone : 
And honor cannot tiiaw us, nor our wants, 
Tiiough they burn hot as fevers to our states. 

Cat. I muse they would be tardy at an hour 
Of so great purpose. 

Cet. If the gods had call'd 
Them to a purpose, they would just have come 
With the same tortoise speed ; that are tluis slow 
To such an action, which the gods will envy ; 
As asking no less moans than all their powers 
Conjoin'd to effect. 1 would have seen Rome burnt 
By this time, and her ashes in an urn : 
The Idngdom of the senate rent asunder : 
And the degenerale talking gown run frighted 
Out of the air of Italy. 

Cat. Spirit of men, 
Thou heart of our great enterprise, how much 
I love these voices in thee ! 

Cet. O the days 
Of Sylla's sway, when the free sword took leave 
To act all that it would ! 

Cat. And was familiar 
With entrails, as our augurs 

Cet. Sons kill'd fath.-rs, 
Brothers their brotliers 

Cat. And had price and praise : 
All hate and license giv'n it ; all rage reins. 

Cet. Slaughter bestrid the streets, and stretch'd himself 
To seem more huge : whilst to l>is stained tliighs 
The gore he drew flow'd up, and carriod down 
Whole heaps of limbs and bodies tlirough his arch. 



CATILINE. 77 



No age was spar'd, no sex. 
Cat. Nay, nodogrco- 



Cct. Not iniants in thfi porch of life were free. 
The sick, tlic old, that could but hope a day 
Longer by nature's bounty, not let stay. 
Virgins and widows, matrons, pregnant wives, 
All died. 

Cat. 'TwaS crime enough that they had lives. 
To strike but only those that could do hurt, 
Was dull and poor. Some fell, to make the number; 
As some, the prey. 

Cet. The rugged Charon fainted. 
And ask'd a navy rath(>r tium a boat. 
To ferry over the sad world that came : 
The maws and dens of beasts could not receive 
The bodies that those souls were frighted from ; 
And even the graves were fill'd with men yet living. 
Whose flight and fear had niix'd thetu with the dead. 

Cat. And this shall be again, and more, and more, 
Now Lentnlus, the third Cornelius, 
Is to stand up in Rome. 

Lrnt. Nay, urge not that 
Is so uncertain. 

Cat. How ! 

Lrnt. T mean, not clear'd ; 
And therefore not to be reflected on. 

Co/. The Sybil's leaves uncertain ! or the comments, 
Of our grave, deep, divining men, not clear! 

Lent. All prophecies, you know, suffer the torture. 

Cat. But this already hath confess'd, without ; 
And so been weigh'd, examin'd, and compar'd. 
As 'twere malicious ignorance in hitu 
Would faint in the belief. 

Lent. Do you believe it ? 

Cat. Do T love Lentulus, or pray to see it ? 

Lent. The augurs all are constant I am meant. 

Cat. They bad lost their science else. 

Lent. They count from Cinna 



78 ENOLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Cat. And Sylla next and so make you the third j 

All that can say the sun is ris'n, must think it. 

Lent. Moil mark mo more of late as I come forth ! 

Cat. Why, what can they do less ? Cinna and Sylla 
Are set and gone ; and we must turn our eyes 
On him that is, and shines. Noble Ccthegus, 
But view him with mo hero ! He looks already 
As if he shook a seojjtre o'er the senate, 
And the aw'd purple dropt their rods and axes. 
The statues melt again, and household gods 
In groans confess the travails of the city : 
The very walls sweat blood before the change ; 
And stones start out to ruin, ere it comes. 

Cet. But he, and we, and all, are idle still. 

Lmt I am your creature, Sergius ; and vvhate'ei 
The great Cornelian name shall win to be, 
It is not augury, nor the Sybil's books 
But Catiline, that makes it. 

Cat. I am a shadow 
To honor'd Lentulus, and Cethegus iiore ; 
Who are the heirs of Mars. 



THE NEW INN ; OR, THE LIGHT HEART. A COMEDY. 
BY BEN. .ION SON. 

Lovi'l discovtrs to the Host of the J\'eii> Inn, his Love for the Lady Fran- 
ces, and his reasons for concealing his Passion from her. 

Lov. There is no life on earth, but being in love ! 
There are no studies, no delights, no business, 
No intercourse, or trade of sense, or soul. 
But what is love ! I was the laziest creature. 
The most unprofitable sign of nothing, 
The veriest drone, and slept away my life 
Beyond the dormouse, till I was in love ! 
And now I can out-wako the nightingale, 
Out-watch an usurer, and out-walk him too, 



NEW INN. 79 



Stalk like a ghost that haunted 'bout a treasure ; 
And all that fancied treasure, it is love ! 

Host. But is your name Love-ill, sir, or Love-well ? 
I would know that. 

Lov. I do not know it myself, 
Whether it is. liut it is love hath been 
The hereditary passion of our house. 
My gentle host, and, as 1 guess, my friend ; 
The trutli is, I have loved this lady long, 
And impotently, with desire enough, 
But no success : for I have still forborne 
To express it in my person to her. 

Host. How tlien ? 

Lov. I have sent her toys, verses, and anagrams, 
Trials of wit, mere trifles, she has commended, 
But knew not whence they came, nor could she guess. 

Host. This was a pretty riddling way of wooing ! 

Lov. I oft have been too in her company 
And look'd u|)on Imr a whole day, admir'd her, 
Loved her, and did not tell her so, loved still, 
Look'd still, and loved ; and loved, and look'd, and sigh'd ; 
But, as a man neglected, I came off. 
And unregarded. 

Host. Could you blame her, sir. 
When you were silent and not said a word ? 

Lov. O but 1 loved the more ; and she might read it 
Best in my silence, had she been 

Host. as melancholic. 

As you are. Pray yon, why would you stand mute, sir ? 

Lov. O thereon hangs a history, mine host. 
Did you ever know or hear of the Lord Beaufort, 
Who serv'd so bravely in France ? I was his page, 
And, ere he died, his friend ! I follow'd him 
First in the wars, and in the time of peace 
I waited on his studies ; which were right. 
He had no Arthurs, nor no Rosicleers, 
No Knights of the Sun, nor Amadis de Gauls, 
Primalions, and Pantagruels, public nothings ; 



80 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Aborti'vi'S oCtlip (ahiilous dark cloister, 

StMit out to poison courts, tiiul inli'st ninniiprs : 

But groat Aohillrs', Agiiniomnon's nets, 

Sa^o Nt'stor's eounsrls, and Ulysses' sloiirhts, 

Tvtlid(>s' fortitude, as Homer wrought tlioin 

In his iuuuortal fancy, for cxainplos 

C>ril);> horoio virtue. Or, us Virgil, 

That nuistor of the Epic Poem, limn'd 

Pious ilineas, his religious prince. 

Bearing his aged parent on his shoulders, 

Rapt from the (lames of Troy., with his young son. 

And these lie brought to practise and to use. 

\lo gave me first my breeding, I acknowledge, 

Then shower'd his bounties on me, like the Hours, 

That open-handed sit upon tiie clouds, 

And press the liberality of heaven 

Down to the laps of thankful men ! But then, 

The trust conunitti'd to mo at his ileath 

Whs above all, and left so strong a tye 

On all my powers as tinu' shall not dissolve, 

Till it dissolve itself, and bury all : 

Th(> care of liis brave hoir and only son ! 

Who being a virtwous, sweet, young, hopeful lord, 

I lath oast his iirst atloctions on this lady. 

And thougli 1 know, and may presume her such, 

As, out of humor, will n^turn no love, 

And then^ioro might iiidilioroutly be made 

The courling-stock for all to practise on, 

As she doth practise on us all to scorn : 

Vet out of a religion to my charge. 

And debt profess'd, I have made a self-decree, 

Ni''er to express my piM-son though my passion 

JUirn me to liiuders. 

Lorn' ill t/'ic pifSfiicc of the L'lilt/ Fraiiri-.s, tfif i/tniiii; Lord Btaii/uit, and 
other Gutsts o/t/ir JWtc Inn, t/i/uns ir/int Love is 

LotK Wha* else 
Is \q\c, but the most nobl(\ pure atfootion 



NKW INN. 81 

Of what is truly boauliCul uiid luir ? 
D(>siro of union witii the thinj^ beloved? 

Benu. I iiavo read somewhcrt!, that man and woman 
Were, in the first creation, both one piece, 
And bring cleft usundcr, over since 
Love was an appetite to bo rejoin'd. 

Lov. It is a lablc of Plato's, in his banquet, 
And utter'd there by Aristophanes. 

llosl. 'Tvvas well rciuionibor'd bore, and to good uso. 
liut on with your description what love is. 
Desire of union with tlu^ thing beloved. 

Lov. I meant a definition. For 1 make 
Tlin eflicient cause, what's beautiful and fair. 
The formal cause, thr; appetite of union. 
The final cause, the union itself. 
Dut larger, if you '11 \mvo. it, by description : 
It is a (lame and ardor of the mind. 
Dead in the proper corps, quick in another's : 
Transfers the lover into the loved. 
That he, or she, that loves, (Migraves or stamps 
The idea of what fliey love, first in themselves: 
Or, like to glasses, so their minds take in 
The forms of their belov'd, and them reflect. 
It is the likeness of afiections. 
Is b(jth the j)ar(;nl and tli(^ imrse of love. 
Lov(! is a spiritual coupling of two souls, 
So much more excellent as it least relates 
Unto the body ; circular, eternal ; 
Not feign'd, or made, but born : And then, so precious, 
As nought can value it but ils(df. So free, 
As nothing can command it but itself. 
And in itself so round and liberal. 
As, where it favors, it bestows itself. 
But Wf! must tak(! and understand this love 
Along still as a name of dignity^ 
Not |)U'asiiir. 

True love bath n(^ unworthy thought, no light 
Loose unbecoming appetite, or strain : 
I'Anx II. 7 



88 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



But fixed, constant, pure, immutaljle. 

Jicaii. 1 relish not these philosopliieal feasts; 
(jive lue a banquet o' sense, like that of Ovid ; 
A form, to tak(> llio eye ; a voice, mine ear ; 
Pure uromaties to my scent ; a sofl 
SiiHiotli dainty hand to touch ; and, lor my tasto, 
Aml)r()siac kisses to melt down the palate. 

Lor. They are the earthly, lower form of lovers, 
Are only taken willi what strikes the senses, 
And love by tiiat loose scale. Altho' I grant. 
We like what's fair and graceful in an object, 
And (true) would use it, in them all we tend to, 
Both of our civil and domestic deeds, 
In ordering of an army, in our style. 
Apparel, gesture, building, or what not? 
All arts and actions do allect their beauty. 
But put the case, in travel I may meet 
Some gorgeous structure, a brave finntispiece, 
Shall 1 stay cai)tive in the outtM- court, 
Surpriz'd with that, and not advanced to know 
Who dwells there, and inhabiteth the house ? 
There is my friendship to be made, within ; 
With wliat can love me again ; not with the walls, 
Doors, windows, architrabes, the frieze, and cornice. 
My end is lost in loving of a Itiee, 
An eye, lip, nose, hand, foot, or other part, 
Whose all is but a statue if the mind 
Move not, wiiich only can make the return. 
The end of lov«^ is, to have two niado one 
In will, and in atleetion, that the minds 
Be first inoculattnl, not the bodies. 
The body's love is frail, subject to change. 
And alter still with it : The mind's is firm, 
Ont> and tlu> same, j)roet>edeth first from weighing, 
And well examining what is lair and good ; 
Then what is like in reason, fit in maimers ; 
That breeds good will : good will desire of union. 
So knowledge first begets benevolence. 



NEW INN. 83 



Bonevolonce breeds frieiulship, friendship love : 
And where it starts or steps aside from this, 
It is a mere degenerate appetite, 
A lost, oblique, deprav'd afli'ction, 
And bears no mark or character of love. 
Nor do they trespass within bounds of pardon, 
That giving way and licence to their love. 
Divest him of his noblest ornaments, 
Which are his modesty and shamt;fac'dness : 
And so they do, that have unfit designs 
U|)on the parties they pretend to love. 
For what 's more monstrous, more a prodigy, 
Than to hear me protest truth of affection 
Unto a person that I would dishonor ? 
And what's a more dishonor, than defacing 
Another's good with forfeiting mine own. 
And drawing on a fellowship of sin ? 
From note of which though for a while we may 
Be both kept safe by caution, yet the conscience 
Cannot be cleans'd. For what was hitherto 
Call'd by the name of love, becomes destroy 'd 
Then, with the fact; the innoccncy lost. 
The bating of alFection soon will follow ; 
And love is never true that is not lasting : 
No more than any can be pure or perfect, 
That entertains more than one object. 

[These and the ])rececliiig extracts may serve to show the poetical fancy 
and elegance of mind of the supposed rugged old Hard. A thousand beau- 
tiful passages might be adduced from those numerous court mastjues and 
entertainments which he was in the daily habit of furnishing, to prove the 
same thing. But they do not come within my plan. That which follows is 
a specimen of that talent for comic humor, and the assemblage of ludicrous 
images, on which his reputation (diiefly rests. It may serve for a variety 
ttfter so many serious extracts.] 



84 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

THE ALCHEMIST: A COMEDY. BY BEN. JONSON. 

Epicure Mammon, a Knight, deceived by the pretensions of Subtle (Jthe 
Alchemist), glories in the prospect of obtaining the Philosopher's 
Stone ; and promises what rare things he will do with it. 

Mammon. Sttrly, his Friend. The Scene, StrEXLE's House. 

Mam. Come on, Sir. Now you set your foot on shore 
In novo orbe. Here's the rich Peru ; 
And there within, sir, are the golden mines, 
Great Solomon's Ophir ! He was sailing to 't 
Three years, but we have reached it in ten months. 
This is the day wherein to all my friends 
I will pronounce the happy word, Be rich. 
This day you shall be spectatissimi. 
You shall no more deal with the hollow dye, 
Or the frail card. No more be at charge of keeping 
The livery punk for the young heir, that must 
Seal at all hours in his shirt. No more, 
If he deny, ha' him beaten to 't, as he is 
That brings him the commodity. No more 
Shall thirst of sattin, or the covetous hunger 
Of velvet entrails for a rude-spun cloke 
To be display'd at Madam Augusta's, make 
The sons of Sword and Hazard fall before 
The golden calf, and on their knees whole nights 
Commit idolatry with wine and trumpets ; 
Or go a feasting after drum and ensign. 
No more of this. You shall start up young Viceroys, 
And have your punques and punquetees, my Surly : 
And unto thee I speak it first, Be rich. 
Where is my Subtle there ? within ho 

Face answers from within. 
Sir, 
He '11 come to you by and by. 
Mam. That's his fire-drake, 
His Lungs, his Zephyrus, he that puifs his coals 
Till he firk Nature up in her own centre. 



ALCHEMIST. 85 



You are not faithful, sir. This night I'll change 

All that is metal in thy house to gold : 

And early in the morning will 1 send 

To all the plumbers and the pewterers, 

And buy their tin and lead up ; and to Lothbury, 

For all the copper. 

Sur. What, and turn that too ? 

Ma?n. Yes, and I'll purchase Devonshire and Cornwall, 
And make them perfect Indies ? You admire now ? 

Sur. No, faith. 

3Iam. But when you see the effects of the great medicine ! 
Of which one part projected on a hundred 
Of Mercury, or Venus, or the Moon, 
Shall turn it to as many of the Sun ; 
Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum : 
You will believe me. 

Sur. Y^es, when I see 't, I will. 

Mam. Ha! why. 
Do you think I fable with you ? I assure you, 
He that has once the flower of the Sun, 
The perfect Ruby, which we call Elixir, 
Not only can do that, but by its virtue 
Cdn confer honor, love, respect, long life, 
Give safety, valor, yea, and victory, 
To whom he will. In eight and twenty days 
I'll make an old man of fourscore a child. 

Sur. No doubt ; he's that already. 

Matn. Nay, I mean. 
Restore his years, renew him like an eagle. 
To the fifth age ; make him get sons and daughters. 
Young giants, as our philosophers have done 
(The ancient patriarchs afore the flood) 
But taking, once a week, on a knife's point 
The quantity of a grain of mustard of it, 
Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids. 

Sur. The decay 'd vestals of Pickt-hatch would thank y 
That keep the fire alive there. 

Mam. 'Tis the secret 



86 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Of Nature naturized 'gainst all infections, 

Cures all diseases, coming of all causes ; 

A month's grief in a day : a year's in twelve j 

And of what age soever, in a month : 

Past all the doses of your drugging doctors. 

I'll undertake withal to fright the plague 

Out o' the kingdom in three months. 

Sur. And Til 
Be bound, the players shall sing your praises, then, 
Without their poets. 

Mam. Sir, I'll do 't. Meantime, 
I'll give away so much unto my man, 
Siiall serve tlr whole city with preservative 
Weekly ; each house his dose, and at the rate — 

Sur. As he that built the water- work, does with water ? 

Mam. You are incredulous. 

Sur. Faith, 1 have a humor, 
1 would not willingly be guU'd. Your Stone 
Cannot transmute me. 

Mam. Pertinax Surly, 
Will you believe antiquity ? Records ? 
I'll show you a book, where Moses, and his sister, 
And Solomon, have written of the Art? 
I, and a treatise penn'd by Adam. 

Sur. How ? 

Mam. Of the Philosopher's Stone, and in High Dutch. 

Sur. Did Adam write, Sir, in High Dutch ? 

Mam. He did, 
Which proves it was the primitive tongue. 

Sur. What paper ? 

Mam. On cedar-board. 

Sur. O that, indeed, they say. 
Will last 'gainst worms. 

Mam. 'Tis like your Irish wood 
'Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason's Fleece too, 
Which was no other than a book of Alchemy, 
Writ in large sheep-skin, a good fat ram- vellum. 
Such 'vns Pvthagoras' Tliigh, Pandora's Tub, 



ALCHEMIST. ST 



And all that fable of Medea's charms, 

The manner of our work : the bulls, our furnace, 

Still breathing fire : our Arge7it-vivei the Dragon : 

Tiie Dragon's teeth, Mercury sublimate, 

That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting : 

And they are gather'd into Jason's helm 

(Th' Alembick) and then sow'd in Mars his field, 

And thence sublim'd so often, till they are fix'd. 

Both this, the Hesperian Garden, Cadmus' Stcry, 

Jove's Shower, the Boon of Midas, Argus' Eyes, 

Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more, 

All abstract riddles of our Stone. 

Face enters. 

How now ? 

Do we succeed ? is our day come ? and holds it ? 

Face. The evening will set red upon you, sir ; 
You have color for it, crimson : the red ferment 
Has done his olHce. Throe hours hence prepare you 
To see projection. 

Mam. Pertinax, my Surly, 
Again I say to thee aloud. Be rich. 
This day thou shah have ingots, and to-morrow 
Give lords th' allVont. Is it, my Zephyrus, right? 
Blushes the Bolt's-head .' 

Face. Like a wench with child, sir. 
That were but now discover'd to her master. 

Mam. Excellent witty Lungs ! My only care is, 
Where to get .stuff enough now, to project on. 
This town will not half serve me. 

Face. No, sir ? buy 
The covering off o' churches. 

Mam. That's true. 

Face. Yes. 
Let 'em stand bare, as do their auditory ; 
Or cap 'em new with shingles. 

Matn. No ; good thatch : 
Thatch will lie light upon the rafters, Lungs. 



88 en(;lisii dramatic poets. 

Lunps, I will luaiuiniit tlioc from the furnace ; 
I will rcslorr tlioe thy comploxion, Piifle, 
L(wt in tho onibors ; and repair this brain 
Hurt with tho funic o' tho metals. 

Face. I have blown, sir, 
Hard for your worship ; thrown by many a coal, 
When 'twas not beech ; weigh'd those I put in, just, 
To keep your heat still even ; these l)lear'd eyes 
Have waked to read your several colors, sir, 
Of the paJ,c citron, tho green lymi, the croio, 
The peacock's tail, the plumed sioan 

Mam. And lastly, 
Thou hast described i\\o. floun'r, the sanguis agni ? 

Face. Yes, sir. 

Mam. Where's master \ 

Face. At his prayers, sir, he, 
Good man, he's doinjic his devotions 
l''or Ills success. 

Mam. Lungs, I will set u period 
To all thy labors : thou shall be the master 
Of my seraglio. For I do mean 
To have a list of wives and concubines 
lv|ual with Solomon, who had tlu^ Stone 
Alik<' witii m(> : and I v.ill make me a back 
Willi the Elixir, that shall be as tough 
As Hercules, to encounter fifty a night. 
Thou art sure thou saw'st it blood ? 

Face. Both blood and spirity sir. 

Mam. I will have all my beds blown up ; not stuft 
Down is too hard. And then, mine oval room 
Fill'd with such pictures as Tiberius took 
From Elephantis, and dull Aretine 
But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses 
(^ut in more subtle angles, to disperse 
And multiply i\\v ligures, as I walk 
Naktnl between my Succuhe. My mists 
I'll have of perfume, vapor'd 'bout the room, 
To lose ourselves in ; and my baths, like pits 



ALCHEMIS'i'. 88 



To fnll into ; froin wlicnco we will come forth, 

And roll us dry in gossaniour and rosos. 

(Is it arrived at Ruby ?) — Whore I spy 

A wealthy citi/en, or rich lawyer, 

Have a sublini'd pure wife, unto that fellow 

I'll send a thousand pound to ho my cuckold. 

Face. And 1 shall tarry it i 

Mam. No, I'll have no bawds, 
But fathers and mothers. Thoy will do it best, 
Host of all otlu-rs. And my flatterers 
Shall i)(! the pur(f and gravest of divines 
Tiiat I can {^ot (or money. My meet fools, 
lOloquent burgesses ; and then my poets, 
'I'he sanie that writ .so subtly of the Fart : 
Whom 1 will entortain still ibr that subject, 
'i'he few that would give out tliem.siilvcs to be 
(yourl and town stallions, and (^ach-whero belio 
Jjadies, who are known most innocent {ihv llicm) 
Those will I beg, to make me eunuchs of: 
And they shall fan me with ten ostrich tails 
A piece, made in a plumo, to gather wind. 
We will be brave, Pulle, now wo ha' tin; medicine 
My meat shall all come in in Indian shells. 
Dishes of Agate; sot in gold, and studded 
With emeralds, sa|)phires, hyacinths, and rubies : 
The tonguos of carps, «lormico, and canuds' hoels, 
Hoil'd i' the spirit of Sol, and dissolv'd pearl 
(Apicius' diet 'gainst the epilepsy), 
And I will eat these broths with spoons of amber, 
Headed with diamant and carbuncle 
My foot-boy shall eat pheasants, calvor'd salmons, 
Knots, godwits, lampreys : I myself will have 
The beards of barbels serv'd, in stead of sallads ; 
Oil'd mushrooms ; and the swelling unctuous paps 
Of a fat prognant sow, newly cut oil", 
Drest with an oxfjuiHite and poignant sauce : 
For which, I'll say unto my cook, " There's gold, 
Go forth, and be a knight." 



90 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Face. Sir, I'll go look 
A little, how it heightens. 

Mam. Do. — My shirts 
I'll have of taflata-sarsnet, soft and light 
As cobwebs ; ami, for all my other raiment, 
It shall be such as might provoke the Persian, 
Were he to teach the world riot anew. 
My gloves of fishes' and birds' skins, perfum'd 
With gums of paradise, and eastern air. 

Sur. And do you think to have the Stone with this ? 

Mam. No, I do think to have all this with the Stone. 

Sur. Why, I have heard, he must be /lo/Hofn/^', 
A pious, holy, and religious man, 
One free from mortal sin, a very virgin 

Mom. That makes it Sir, he is so. But I buy it. 

My venture brings it me. He, honest wretch, 
A notable, superstitious, good soul, 
Has worn his knees bare, and his slippers bald. 
With prayer and fasting for it : and, sir, let him 
Do it alone, for me, still. Here he comes. 
Not a profane word, afore him : 'tis poison. 

[The jud!;inont is perfoctly overwhelmed by the torrent of images, words, 
and book-knowledge witli whicli Mammon confounds and stuns liis incredu- 
lous heaver. They come pouring out like the successive strokes of Nilus 
They " doubly redouble strokes upon the foe." Description outstrides 
proof. We are made to believe cllects before we have testimony for their 
causes : as a lively description of the joys of heaven sometimes passes for 
an argument to prove the existence of such a place. If there be no one 
image which rises to the height of the sublime, yet the confluence and 
assemblage of them all produces an eflect e^\\iA\ to the grandest poetry. 
Xerxes' army that drank up whole rivers from their numbers may stand for 
single Achilles. Epicure Mammon is the most determined offspring of the 
author. It has the whole " matter and copy of the father, eye, nose, lip, 
the trick of his frown." It is just such a swaggerer as contemporaries 
have described old Ben to be. Meercraft, Bobadil, the Host of the New 
Inn, have all his " image and superscri])tion :" but Mammon is aiTogant 
pretension personified. Sir Sampson Legend, in Love for Love, is such 
anotlier lying overbearing character, but he does not come up to Epicure 
Mammon, What a " tow'ring bravery " there is in his sensuality ! He 
affects no pleasure under a Sultan. It is as if " Egypt with Assyria strove 
in luxury."] 



VOLPONE. 91 



VOLPONE; OR, THE FOX: A COMEDY. BY HEN. JONSON. 

Volpone, a rich Venetian nobleman, who is without children, feigns 
himself to be dying, to draw gifts from such as pay their court to him 
in the expectation of becoming his heirs. Mosca, his knavish confede- 
rate, persuades each of these men in turn, that he is named for the in- 
heritance, and by this means extracts from their credulity many costly 
presents. 

Volpone, as on his dealh-bcd. Mosca. Corbaccio, an old gentle- 

man. 

Mos. Signior Corbaccio, 
You are very welcome, sir. 

Corb. How does your patron ? 

Mos. Troth, as lie did, sir, no amends. 

Corb. What? mends he? 

Mos. No, sir, he is rather worse. 

Corb. That's well. Where is he ? 

Mos. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep. 

Corb. Does he sleep well ? 

Mos. No wink, sir, all this night. 
Nor yesterday ; but slumbers. 

Corb. Good ! he shall take 
Some counsel of physicians : I have brought him 
An opiate here, from mine own doctor — 

Mos. He will not hear of drugs. 

Corb. Why ? I myself 
Stood by, while 'twas made ; saw all th' ingredients ; 
And know it cannot but most gently work. 
My life for his, 'lis but to make him sleep. 

VoJp. I, his last sleep if he would take it. 

Mos. Sir, 
He has no faith in physic. 

Corh. Say you, say you ? 

Mos. He has no faith in physic : he does think, 
Most of your doctors are the greatest danger, 
A worst disease t' escape. I often have 
Heard him protest, that your physician 
ShouH never be his heir. 



92 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Corb. Not I his heir ? 

Mos. Not your physician, sir. 

Corb. O, no, no, no, 
I do not mean it. 

Mos. No, sir, nor their fees 
He cannot brook ; he says they flay a man, 
Before they Icill him. 

Corb. Right, I do conceive you. 

Mos. And then, they do it by experiment : 
For which the law not only doth absolve 'em, 
But gives them great reward ; and he is loth 
To hire his death so. 

Corb. It is true, they kill. 
With as much license as a Judge. 

Mos. Nay, more : 
For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, 
And these can kill him too. 

Corb. I, or me ; 
Or any man. How does his apoplex ? 
Is that strong on him still ? 

Mos. Most violent, 
His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, 
His face drawn longer than 'twas wont. 

Corb. How ? how ? 
Stronger than he was wont 1 

Mos. No, sir : his face 
Drawn longer than 'twas wont. 

Corb. O, good. 

Mos. His mouth 
Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang. 

Corb. Good. 

Mos. A freezing numbness stiftens all his joints, 
And makes the color of his flesh like lead. 

Corb. 'Tis good. 

Mos. His pulse beats slow, and dull. 

Corb. Good symptoms still. 

Mos. And from iiis brain — 

Corb. Ha I how ? not from his brain ? 



VOLPONE. 93 



Mos. Yes, sir, and from his brain — 

Corb. I conceive you, good. 

Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum 
Forth the resolved corners of his eyes. 

Corb. Is 't possible ? yet I am better, ha ! 
How does he with the swimming of his head ? 

Mos. O, sir, 'tis past the scotomy ; he now 
Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort: 
You hardly can perceive him tliat he breathes. 

Corb. Excellent, excellent, sure I shall outlast him: 
This makes me young again a score of years. 

Mos. I was coming for you, sir. 

Corb. Has he made his will ? 
What has he giv'n me ? 

Mos. No, sir. 

Corb. Nothing ? ha ? 

Mos. He has not made his will, sir. 

Corb. Oh, oh, oh. 
What then did Voltore the lawyer here ? 

Mos. He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but heard 
My master was about his testament ; 
As I did urge him to it for your good — 

Corb. He came unto him, did he ? I thought so. 

Mos. Yes, and presented him this piece of plate. 

Corb. To be his heir ? 

Mos. I do not know, sir. 

Corb. True, 
I know it too. 

Mos. By your own scale, sir. 

Corb. Well, I shall prevent him yet. See, Mosca, lo . 
Here I have brought a bag of bright cecchines. 
Will quite weigh down his plate. 

Mos. Yea marry, sir, 
This is true physic, this your sacred medicine ; 
No talk of opiates, to this great elixir. 

Corb. Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile. 

Mos. It shall be minister'd to him in his bowl ? 

Corb. I, do, do, do. 



94 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Mos. Most blessed cordial. 
This will recover him. 

Corh. Yes, do, do, do. 

Mos. I think it were not best, sir. 

Corh. What? 

Mos, To recover him. 

Corh. O, no, no, no ; by no means. 

Mos. Why, sir, this 
Will work some strange eftect if he but feel it. 

Corh. 'Tis true, therefore forbear, I'll take my venture ; 
Give me '*t again. 

Mos. At no hand ; pardon me 
You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. 
Will so advise you, you shall have it all. 

Corh. How ] 

Mos. All sir, 'tis your right, your own ; no maa 
Can claim a part ; 'tis yours without a rival, 
Decreed by destiny. 

Corh. How ? ho w, good Mosca ? 

Mos. I "11 tell you, sir. This fit he shall recover. 

Corh. I do conceive you. 

Mos. And on first advantage 
Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him 
Unto the making of his testament : 
And show him this. 

Corh. Good, good. 

Mos. 'Tis better yet, 
If you will hear, sir. 

Corh. Yes, with all my heart. 

Mos. Now would I counsel you, make home with speed ; 
There frame a will ; wliereto you shall inscribe 
My master your sole heir. 

Corh. And disinherit 
My son '? 

Mos. O sir, the better ; for that color 
Shall make it much more taking. 

Corh. O, but color I 

Mos. This will, sir, you sliall send it unto me. 



VOLPONE. ys 

Now, when I come to inforce (as I will do) 

Your cares, your watchings, and your tnany prayers, 

Your more than many gifts, your this day's present, 

And last produce your will ; where (without thought, 

Or least regard unto your proper issue, 

A son so brave, and highly meriting) 

The stream of your diverled love hath thrown you 

Upon my master, and made him your heir; 

He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead, 

But out of conscience, and mere gratitude 

Corb. He must pronounce me his ? 

Mos^ 'Tis true. 

Corb. 'Hus plot 
Did I think on before. 

Mos. I do believe it. 

Corb. Do you not believe it ? 

Mos. Y'es, sir. 

Corb. Mine own project. 

Mos. Which when he hath done, sir — 

Corb. Published me his heir? 

Mos. And you so certain to survive him — 

Corb. I. 

Mos. Being so lusty a man — 

Corb. 'Tis true. 

Mos. Y'es, sir — 

Corb. I thought on that too. See how he should be 
The very organ to express my thoughts ! 

Mos. Y'ou have not only done yourself a good 

Corb. But multiplied it on my son. 

Mos. 'Tis right, sir. 

Corb. Still my invention. 

Mofi. 'Las, sir, heaven knows. 
It hath been all my study, all my care 
(I e'en grow grey with all) how to work things ■ 

Corb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca. 

Mos. You are he, 
For whom I labor, here. 

Corf>. I, (\i\ do, do : 



06 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

I '11 straight about it. 

Mos. Rook go with you, raven. 

Corh. I know thee honest. 

Mos. You do lie, sir — 

Corh. And 

Mos. Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir. 

Corh. I do not doubt to be a father to thee. 

Mos. Nor 1 to gull my brother of his blessing. 

Corh. I may ha' my youth restored to me, why not ? 

Mos. Your worship is a precious ass 

Corh. What say'st thou ? 

Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste, sir. 

Corh. 'Tis done, 'tis done, I go. [^Exit. 

Volp. O, I shall burst ; 
Let out my sides, let out my sides 

Mos. Contain 
Your flux of laughter, sir : you know this hope 
Is such a bait it covers any hook. 

Volp. O, but thy working, and thy placing it ! 
I cannot hold : good rascal, let me kiss thee : 
I never knew thee in so rare a humor. 

Mos. Alas, sir, I but do, as I am taught ; 
Follow your grave instructions ; give 'em words : 
Pour oil into their ears : and send them hence. 

Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishment 
Is avarice to itself ! 

Mos. I, with our help, sir. 

Volp. So many cares, so many maladies, 
So many fears attending on old age, 
Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish 
Can be more frequent with 'em, their limbs faint, 
Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going. 
All dead before them; yea their very teeth. 
Their instruments of eating, failing them : 
Yet tbis is reckon'd life ! Nay here was one, 
Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer ! 
Feels not his gout, not palsy, feigns himself 
Younger by scores of years, flatters his age, 



VOLPONE. VI 

With confident belying it, hopes he may 

With charms, like ^son, have his youth restored : 

And with these thoughts so battens, as if Fate 

Would be as easily cheated on as he : 

And all turns air ! Who 's that there, now ? a third ? 

[Another knocks. 

Mos. Close to your couch again : I hear his voice. 
It is Corvino, our spruce merchant. 

Volp. Dead. 

Mos. Another bout, sir, with your eyes. Who 's there ? 

Corvino, a Merchant, enters. 

Mos. Signior Corvino ! come most wisht for ! O, 
How happy were you, if you knew it now ! 

Corv. Why ? what ? wherein ? 

Mos. The tardy hour is come, sir. 

Corv. He is not dead ? 

Mos. Not dead, sir, but as good ; 
He knows no man. 

Corv. How shall I do then ? 

Mos. Why, sir ? 

Corv. I have brought him here a pearl. 

Mos. Perhaps he has 
So much remembrance left, as to know you, sir : 
He still calls on you : nothing but your name 
Is in his mouth ; is your pearl orient, sir ? 

Corv. Venice was never owner of the like. 

Volp. Signior Corvino. 

Mos. Hark. 

Volp. Signior Corvino. 

Mos. He calls you, step and give it him. He 's here, sir. 
And he has brought you a rich pearl. 

Corv. How do you, sir ? 
Tell him it doubles the twelfth caract. 

Mos. Sir. 
He cannot understand, his hearing 's gone : 
And yet it comforts him to see you 

Corv. Say, 

PART II. 8 



08 KMU.lSll DK AMAl'U' POK'IX 



I huvo n diamond for him too. ' 

Mo/i. Host show "t, sir, 
I'lit it into his hand ; 'tis only tiiore 
llo HpproluMuls : ht> has liis totaling yet. 
ISoo how ho grasps it ! 

Corv. 'Las, good g(MiihMnan ! 
[low pilifnl tiio sight is! 

]\Ji\t. Tnf, Corgot, sir. 
Tho wooping ot" an iuMr should still he laughter, 
Undor a visor. 

Corr. \\\n\ am 1 his lioir ? 

31os. Sir, 1 am sworn, I mav not show tho will, 
Till ho bo doad : but, horo has l)oon C\>rbaccio, 
lloro has boi>n Voltoro, horo w»m"o othore too, 
1 cannot number 'em, they were so many, 
All gaping here for logaoies ; but 1. 
Taking tho vantugo of his naming you 
(Signior (\>r\ ino, Signior Corvino), took 
I'apor. and pen. and ink, and there 1 ask'd him. 
Whom he would have his heir ! Corviuo. Who 
Should bo executor ? Corv ino. And 
To any tiuostion he was silt>nt to, 
1 still inlorpiotod the nods, ho made 

Tlu'ongh woaknt^ss, for eonsent : and sent home tho others, 
Nothing boiiuouth'd them, but t() iM-y. and eurse. 

Corv. O, my dear Mosea. Dots \\c not piMvoive us t 

H[o«. No more than a blind barpiM'. llt> knows no man. 
No faoe of friend, nor name oi' any stM'vant, 
\Vbo 't was that fed him last, or gave him drink ; 
Not those he hath begotten, or brought up, 
Can he I'emomber. 

Corv. Has he children i 

Mos. I>astards. 
Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggars, 
livpsies, and .lews, ami blaek-moors. whon \\o was drunk : 
Kn(<w you not that, sir ? 'Tis the connnon fable, 
Tho dwarf, the ftxil, the eunuch, are all his : 
Ho 's the true father of his familv. 



VOM'ONK. 00 



In all, nave n\o. : hut Ik; Iiuh ^^ivcn 'cni nothing. 

dorv. Tlmt 'h wo.W, lliul 'h well. Art Huro lio (Joch not hcnv im? 

Mos. Hiiro, Hir? why look you, crndit your own Honsf;. 
'I'h(! |)ox u|)|)roa(!li, und udd to your (ViHcaHCH, 
\i' it wouhl Hciid you hr;ii(;<! tin; Hoorifir, sir, 
For your incontini'iicc, it Imtii (hiHrrvM it 
Throughly, and throughly, und tiic pluguc to ho(jt. 
(You may cotno msar, Hir) would you would onco close 
'J'hr)H(! filthy nycH of yoiir'H that (low with Hliirir;, 
l^ikf! two Croi^.pitH : und thoHt; HUtnc han<^iii^ <;h()(dc8, 
Covr;r'd with hidf), instead of wkin : (nay hcl|), sir) 
That l(K)k like f'rozon dish-cloutH sot on end. 

(Jnn\ Or, like an old smokM wuU, on which tin- rain 
Han down in HtivakH. 

Mo.s. lOxcclhnl, Hir, npnak out; 
Yf)U may ho loinhsr y<;f : u culvrriuf^ 
iJinchargiid in his our, would hardly horc it. 

Corv. His noHO is liko a common sower, ntilj running. 

Mos. 'Tis good ; und what his mouth ? 

('onu A very draught. 

Moa. O, stop it up 

Corv, liy no nu-ans. 

Mos. Pray you lot mo. 
Faith I could stiflo him rarely with a pillow. 
Ah well as any woman that should kt^-p him. 

Corv. Do as you will, hut I 'II hegoru!. 

Mo.s. Bo 80 ; 
It is your presence makes him last so long. 

Corv. I pray you use nf) viohjnco. 

Mos. No, sir, why ? 
Why should you he thus scrupulous ? MVay you, sir. 

Corv. Nay, at your discretion. 

Mos. Well, good sir, ho gone. 

(Jorv. I will not trouhh; him now, to take my pearl. 

Mos. Puh, nor your diamond. What a needless earn 
is this afllicts you ? Is not all here yours? 
Am not I here, whom you havo made your creature, 
That owe my being to you ? 



100 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Corv. Grateful Mosca ! 
Tliou art my friend, my fellow, my companion. 
My partner, and sliall share in all my fortunes. \ExU. 

Volp. My divine Mosca ! 
Thou liast to-day out gone thyself. 



rHE TRIUMPH OF LOVE: BEING THE SECOND OF FOUR PLAYS, 
OR MORAL REPRESENTATIONS. BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT. 

Violatiia, Daughter to a JVoblcman of Milan, is with child by Gerrard, 
supposed to be. of mean descent: an offence which by the laws of Milan 
is made capital to both parties. 

VioLANTA. Gerrard. 

Viol. Wliy does my Gerrard grieve ? 

Ger. O my sweet mistress, 
It is not life (which by our Milan law 
My fact hath forfeited) makes me thus pensive ; 
Thill I would lose to save the little fmger 
O^ this your noble burthen from least hurt, 
Because your blood is in it. But since your love 
Made poor incompatible me the parent 
(Being we are not married) your dear blood 
Falls under the same cruel penalty : 
And can heaven think fit ye die for me ? 
For Heaven's sake say I ravish'd you ; I'll swear it, 
To keep your life and repute unstain'd. 

Viol. O Gerrard, thou art my life and faculties, 
And if I lose thee, I'll not keep mine own ; 
The thought of whom sweetens all miseries. 
Would 'st have me murder thee beyond thy death ? 
rnjustly scandal thee with ravishment? 
It was so far from rape, that heaven doth know. 
If ever the first lovers, ere they fell, 
ivnew simply in the state of innocence, 
Sueli was this act, this, that doth ask no blush. 

Ger. Oh ! hut my rarest Violanta, when 



TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 101 



My lord Randulpho, brother to your father, 
Shall understand this, how will he exclaim, 
That my poor aunt and me, which his free alms 
Hath nurs'd, since Milan by the duke of Mantua, 

Who now usurps it, was surpriz'd that time 

My father and my mother both were slain, 
With my aunt's husband, as she says ; their states 
Despoil 'd and seized ; 'tis past my memory, 
But thus she told me : only thus I know, 
Since I could understand, your honor'd uncle 
Hath giv'n me all the liberal education 
That his. own son might look for, had he one ; 
Now will he say, dost thou requite me thus ? 
O ! the tiiought kills me. 

Viol. Gentle, gentle Gerrard, 
Be cheer'd and hope the best. My mother, father, 
And uncle, love me most indulgently. 
Being the only branch of all their stocks : 
But neither they, nor he thou would'st not grieve 
With this unwelcome news, shall ever hear 
Violanta's tongue reveal, much less accuse 
Gerrard to be the father of his own. 
I'll rather silent die, that thou may'st live 
To see thy little offspring grow and thrive. 

Violanta is attended in Childbed by her mother Angelina. 

Viol. Mother, I'd not offend you ; might not Gerrard 
Steal in and see me in the evening ? 

Angel Well, 
Bid him do so. 

Viol. Heaven's blessing on your heart. 
Do ye not call child-bearing travel, mother ? 

Angel. Yes. 

Viol. It well may be. The bare-foot traveller 
That's born a prince, and walks his pilgrimage, 
Whose tender feet kiss the remorseless stones 
Only, ne'er felt a travel like to it. 
Alas, dear mother, you groan'd thus for me, 



102 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



And yot how disobedient have I been ! 

Aiigcl. Poaco, Vii)lanta : thou hast always been 
Gontlo and good. 

Viol. Gerrard is bettor, mother : 

if you knew the implicit innocenoy 

Dwells in his breast, you'd love, bim like your prayers. 

1 see no reason but my father miif\u 

Be told the truth, being pleas'd for Ferdinand 
To woo himself: and Gerrard ever was 
His full comparative ; my imclo loves him, 
As he loves Ferdinand. 

Angcl. No, not for the world, 
Since his intent is cross'd : lov'd F(M-dinniid 
Thus ruin'd, and a child got out of wedlock, 
His madness would pursue ye both to death. 

Viol. As you please, ujother. I am now, nu^thinks, 
Even in tht^ land of ease j I'll sleep. 

Angt'/. Draw in 
The bed nearer the fire : silken rest 
Tie all thy cares up.* 

Violanta tltitcrilus how htr love for Grrrard began. 
Viol. Gerrard 's and my atleetion began 
In infancy: my uncle brought him oil 
In long coats hither. 

The little boy would kiss me, being a child, 
And say he lov'd me ; giv(> me all his toys, 
Bracelets, rings, sweetmeats, all ins rosy smiles : 
1 then would stand and stare upon his eyes, 
Play with his locks, and swear I loved him too ; 
For sure methought he was a little Love, 
Tie wooed so prettily in imiocence, 
That then lie warm'd n\y fancy. 

• Violanta's prattle is very pretty uiul so ivatural /;/ hfr situation, tliat I 
ct.uld not resist givinj;; it a pluco. Juno Lueina was never invoked with 
more elegance. Pope has been praised for giving dignity to a game of 
cards. It required at least as much address to ennoble a lying-in. 



MAID'S TRAGEDY. 10,^ 



THE MAID'S TRAGEDY. 15Y FRANCIS REAUMONT, AND JOHN 
KLETCIIKR. 

.Smintor, a noble Gentleman, promises marriage to Aspatia, and for- 
sokes her by the h'ing\<i command to tved Evadnr. — The grief of 
.Ispatia at being forsaken, describrd. 

This lady 
Walks discontented, with hor watry eyes 
Bfiit on the earth : the unfrequented woods 
Are her delight; and when she sees a hank 
Stuck full of flowers, she with a sigh vvill tell 
Iler servants what a pretty place it wore 
To bury lovers in ; and inako hor maids 
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 
She carries with her an infectious grief 
'That strikes all her beholders, she will sing 
The inounifuirst things that ever oar have heard. 
And sigh, and sing again ; and when the rest 
Of our young ladies in tiioir wanton blood, 
Tell mirthful tales in course that fill the room 
With laughter, she will with so sad a look 
Bring forth a stnry of the silent death 
Of some forsaken virgin, which her grief 
Will put in such a phrase, that, ere she end, 
She'll send them weeping one by one away. 

The marriage-night of Amintor and Evadne. 

EvAUNK. AsPATiA. DuLA, and other Lndics. 

Evad. Would thou could'st instill [To Dula. 

Some of thy mirth into Aspatia. 

Asp. It were a timeless smile should prove my cheek ; 
It were a fitter hour for me to laugh, 
Whon at the altar the religious priest 
Were pacifying the ollended powers 
With sacrifice, than now. This should have l)een 
My night, and all your hands have been employ'd 
In giving me a spotless offering 



KNdl.lSli |)i; \1\1 Al'll' I'DKTS. 



To voiiiin' Auiiiilor's IkhI, a., wo iire now 

l'\n' you: purdoii. i*<vmln(>, would uiy worth 

\\ (M'l' }<r('iit us your's, or ilml tlu> Kiiiij;', or he. 

(>r both llit)Uj;lit so; porlmps ho found nir \vorlld(^ss, 

ImiI till lie did so, in \\\rsr curs of niiuo 

(Thoso ficdulons i>urs) ho pour'd \ho swootosi words 

Thill urt or lovo oouhl iVanio, 

I'lvtuL Nny, h'uvo flu's sud tulk, imuhun. 

Astp. VVouUi I couhl, th(>n should I Iciivo Iho cuuso. 
htiij (I ^itr/tiud on 1111/ lit'tiiwr of the liiamnl i/cir. 

J'h'iil, Thul's ono of your sud si)nj;s, niuduiu. 

A»p, Boliovo mo, 'tis n vory pretty oui\ 

Ernd, llow is it. inuduni I 

Aft)), La If (I nar/anil on mif /u'w/w of' llir ({isimi/ ijcir ; 
!)l(ti(lrns\ in//oit' hntnrln'x htutr : Av»y / iliid true : 
Mij iotw «vr.v /(f Ave, hut I iras firm from my liour of' birth ; 
l)>on my huricd body lay tightly gentle earth, 
^h»dunl, ji'ood ui^ht ; — uuiy no discoiittMit 
(!ro\\ 'tvvixt yi)ui" lovo nud you ; Iml it' tliorc di>, 
liKluiro of nio, und 1 will guide your inoau. 
Tiuoli you un urlilii'iul wuy to jvi'ioNc 
To k(>ep your s(M"row wnlvinuj. hove your lord 
No worse thun 1 : hut if yi>u love so W(>11. 
Alus, \ou nuiy displt>use him, so did I. 
This is th(> lust time you shuU look on mt^ : 
Ludies, t'urewell ; us soon us I um dtnul, 
('onii> nil und wuteh one nij^ht uhout mv heurst* ; 
Krini!, <'ueli » niouruful story und u teur 
To otfer ut it when I go to (>urth : 
N\"ilh tlutteriui!; ivy elusp my eoiru\ round, 
W rile on my hi\nv my fortune, li>t my hier 
\\c home hy virgins tliiit shull sing hy coursso 
The truth of muids und ixM-juries of men. 

I'Uutd. Alus. I pity thi>e. | Amintou rntrr.t. 

A,\'f>. (u) ;>Md hi> hiippy in votir lud\ s lovt> ; | To Amintoh. 
Muy ull the wrongs thut \ou huve don(> lo nu>, 
lie ullerU forgotti'U in m\ deuth. 
I 'II lroid>l(> von ne mere, vel I nill luke 



MAID'S TKAOEDY. 105 

A [)iirtiii}f kiss, uiid will not ho denied. 

Villi '11 (•(tine, my lord, and nco iho virgins weep 

Winn 1 iiiii luiil ill ciirtli, though you yourself 

('an know no pily : thus I wind inyHclf 

Into this willow garland, ami am prouder, 

'J'liat I was once your love (though now rofus'd) 

Than to have had anolhcf true lo nie. - 

yinjiiitirt ii<i//.i lirr .Mdiilcns In lir sorroioful , hmiiisr she in no. 
Asi'ATIA. AnT11'II1I.A. ( >I,VIVI1'IAS. 

As[i. Conic, h-l 's he sad, my girls, 
That down-cast oC thine eye, Olynipias, 
Shows a fnir sorrow ; mark, Antiphila, 
.Inst swell another was the nymph Uiiiione, 
When Paris hrought home Helen : now a tear, 
And tluMi thou art a piece expressing fully 
The (!arthage (iucoii, when from a cold sea rock, 
l''iill with her sorrow, she ticrl fast her eyes 
To ihc liiir 'J'rojan ships, and having lost them, 
.lust as thine eyes do, down slol(> a tear, Anliphila. 
What would this wench do, if she were Aspatia ? 
Here she would stand, till some more pitying god 
'J'nrn'd her to marble: 'lis enough, my wench ; 
Show me the pi(;(;(! (jf needle-work you wrought. 

Avt. Of Ariadne, madam ? 

Asp. Yes, that piece. 
'I'his should b(^ Theseus, h' as a cozening face ; 
Von meant him for a man ? 

Ant. lie was so, madam, 

Asp. Why then 'tis well enough. Never look hack, 
Vou havi; a full wind, and a false heart, Theseus. 
Hoes not the story say, his keel was split, 
( )r his masts 8|)ent, or some kind rock or otht^r 
Mel with his vesK'd '/ 

Ant. Not as I rememher. 

Asp. It shonlrl ha' heen so: could lh(!gods know this, 
And not of all their nmiiher raise a storm? 



106 KN'dF.I-^;!! DinSI \ru' POKTv 



Kilt tliry nn> nil us ill. This ImIsi' siuil(> wns wi^ll t^xprost, 
Just such luiollirr caiiulit mr ; vmi shall iu>l i^o so, Aiiti|ihila ; 
In this placr work a unicksaiHl, 
Anil oviM' it a .siiulli)\t* sniiliii;;; watiM", 
Ami his ship ploiiiihinjj it, ami ihrii i\ i'mr. 
l)o thill Irar to tho lilr, wciii'li. 
\iif. "rwill wroiu!; the story. 

Axji. "Pwill makt> thi> storv, u roiio'd hy wanton poct-s, 
l«ivt< loujj imil l)t> hi«liovM ; but whiM'o's llu> latly ? 

Ant. 'Vhvn\ Matlani. 

Axf). V'u\ voii \\a\o inissM it Ikmt. Anlipliilii, 
\ o\\ arc miii'h niislalvoii, \vt>nrli ; 
'riirso colors aro not iliill ami palo tMionijii. 
'Po show a soul so full of niisory 
As this sail laily's was; ilo it hy nu*. 
l)o it aiiain hy mr tin' lost Aspatia, 
Ami yon shall liiiil ;ill Iriio hut thr wild isliinil. 
1 .staml upon tho sra-hcai'h now, ami think 
Mim> arms thus, uuil mino hair blown with the wiml, 
Willi as that ilrsart, anil Irt all about mo 
'VcW that I am toisakrn, ilo my tiicr 
(If thou hailst I'vrr loi^linj"; of a sorrow) 
Thus, thus, Aniiphila. strivt> to makr mo look 
liikr Sorrow's momnnont ; ami tho trnvs about me, 
iji«t thrni bo ilry anil loavrlr.ss; lt>l Iho rocks 
(iroan with coutinm\l surges, ami bchiml mc 
Make all n ilcsohitiou ; look, look, wenches, 
A miscrahli> lilc of this poor picture. 

li/i/m. Hear nuvihun ! 

Asi>. 1 have iloi\e, sit tlowi», ami let us 
Upon that point lix all our eyes, that point there ; 
Makt> a dull silence, till you fei^l a suildeii sadness ^ 

(live us new souls.* 

• Olio i"lu\nn.'ti'nslii' eftlio oxooUont ulil [nu'ts is tiioir boinjv iiblo to l>o- 
stow i:;n\ot) upon 8iil>it>i"ls whioli nuturuUv Ao not sihmu susooptililo of any. 
I will montion two inslsmoos; Zelinano, in tlio .Viviulin ol' Sidnov ; nnd 
llol.-mi. ill tho All 's \V<>U that Knil,«* WoU of .sMuiksposuo. Whiit Vnn bo 
more iiniiomisi'i!', ;>t lirsl si'.;lit llian ll\o i.hM nl" » yoiiii»>- iiuui ilisjjnisinij 



MAIJJ'S 'I'liAUKUy. 107 



Kuuiliii im/i/ori/i /orfiivifu/m of Jlinintor for marryin/i; him while she 
WdK the A'inf^'a Mintrcaa. 

Evad. () my lord. 

Aviin. I low now ! 

Evad, My jiiiicli abused lord ! [Kneels. 

Aiidn. This cuiiiiot he 

Evad.. I do not kiiocl to livo, 1 daro not hope it; 
The wrong's I did aro groator ; look upon me, 
Though I appear with all my faulln. 

Aiiiin. Stand up. 
This is no now way to hegfit rnoro sorrow : 
Iloavon knows I liavo too many ; df) not mock mo ; 
Though I am tamo and bred up witli my wrongs, 
Whioli aro my fijstor-hrothiTs, I may loap 
Lik(! a hand-wolf into my natural wilderness, 
And do an outrage : pray tlioo do not mock me. 

Evad. My whole life is so leprous, it infects 

liiiiiHi'ir ill woiniin'H iittin-, iiiid ]):»Hsiii;^ liiinsi'lf ofT for ii wo(ii;iii among 
wotiien .' and that too Cor a lon^ wpaco of lirne .' yet Sir Philip has 
proHcrvcd hucIi a matcldcHH dicorurn, tliat noithcr does Pyroclcs' iTKinhood 
BUtlrr any stain for tin; cdiMninary of Zeltnano, nor is tho respect duo to the 
princesses at all dirninishcd when the deception comes to he Icnown. In 
the' sweetly constitiit(fd mind of Sir Philip Sidney, it seems as if no 
u^ly thou)<ht nor nnhandsonie meditation could find a harbor. He turned 
all that he touched into imaf^es of honor and virtue. Helena, in Shakspeare, 
is a young woman seekinf:; a man in marriage. The ordinary laws of court- 
ship are reversed; the hahilual feelings are violated. Yet with such 
extpiisite address this datigerous subject is handled, I hat Helena's forward- 
ness loses her no honor; delicacy dispenses with her laws in her favor, and 
Nature in her single case seems content to suffer a sweet violation. 

Aspatia, in this tragedy, is a charactiir equally rlid'icult with Hehina 
of being managed with grace. She, too, is a slighted woman, refused by the 
man who had once engaged to marry her. Yet it is artfully contrived that 
while we pity her, we respect her, and she descends without degradation. 
So much true poetry and passion can do to confer dignity upon subjects 
which do not seem capable r)f it. Hut Aspatia must not be compared at all 
points with Helena; she does not ho absolutely predominate over her 
situation l)ut she suffers some diminution, some abatement of the full lustro 
of tile female character ; which Helena never does : her character has many 
degrees of sweetness, some of delicacy, hut it has weakness which, if we do 
not des])is(r, we are sorry for After all, Heaumont and I'letcher were but 
an inferior sort of .Shai.spenrea and Sidneys. 



1U8 KNOLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

All my repentance : I would buy your pardon 
Though at the highest set, even with my life. 
That slight contrition, that 's no sacrifice 
For what I have committed. 

Amin. Sure I dazzle : 
There cannot be a faith in that foul woman, 
That knows no god more mighty than her mischiefs. 
Thou dost still worse, still number on thy faults. 
To press my poor heart thus. Can I believe 
Tiiere's any seed of virtue in that woman 
Left to shoot up, tliat dares go on in sin 
Known, and so known as thine is ? O Evadne ! 
VVoukl tiiere were any safety in thy sex, 
That I migiit put a thousand sorrows off. 
And credit thy repentance : but I must not ; 
Thou hast brought me to the dull calamity, 
To that strange misbelief of all the world, 
And all tilings that are in it, that I fear 
1 shall fall like a tree, and find my grave, 
Only remcmb'ring that I grieve. 

Evad. My lord. 
Give me your griefs : you are an innocent, 
A soul as white as heaven ; let not my sins 
Perish your noble youth : 1 do not fall here 
To shadow by dissembling with my tears, 
As all say women can, or to make less 
What my hot will hath done, which heaven and you 
Kno\\s to be tougher than the hand of time 
Can cut from man's remembrance ; no I do not ; 
I do appear the same, the same Evadne, 
Drpst in the shames I liv'd in, the same monster. 
But these are names of honor, to what I am ; 
1 do present myself the foulest creature. 
Most poisonous, dangerous, and despis'd of men, 
Lerna e'er bred, or Nilus ; I am hell, 
Till you, my dear lord, shoot your light into me, 
Th(> beams of your forgiveness : I am soul-sick, 
And wither with the fear of one condemn'd, 



MAID'S TRAGEDY. 109 



Till I have got your pardon. 

Allan. Rise, Evadne. 
Those heavenly powers that put this good into thee, 
Grant a continuance of it : I forgive thee ; 
Make thyself vvortliy of it, and take heed. 
Take heed, Evadne, this be serious ; 
Mock not the powers above, that can and dare 
Give thee a great example of their justice 
To all ensuing eyes, if thou play'st 
With thy repentance, the best sacrifice. 

Evad. I have done nothing good to win belief, 
My life hath been so faithless ; all the creatures 
Made for heaven's honors have their ends, and good ones, 
All but the cozening Crocodiles, false women ; 
They reign here like those plagues, those killing sores, 
Men pray against ; and when they die, like tales 
III told, and unbeliev'd, they pass away 
And go to dust forgotten : but, my lord. 
Those short days I shall number to my rest 
(As many must not see me) shall, though too late, 
Though in my evening, yet perceive a will. 
Since I can do no good because a woman. 
Reach constantly at something that is near it ; 
I will redeem one minute of my age, 
Or like another Niobe I '11 weep 
Till I am water. 

Amin. I am now dissolved : 
My frozen soul melts : may each sin thou hast. 
Find a new mercy : rise, I am at peace : 
Had'st thou been thus, thus excellently good. 
Before that devil king wmpted thy frailty. 
Sure thou had'st it)ade a star : give me thy hand ; 
From this time I will know thee, and as far 
As honor gives me leave, be thy Amintor : 
When we meet next, I will salute thee fairly. 
And pray the gods to give thee happy days : 
My charity shall go along with thee, 
Though my embraces must be far from thee. 



JIO KNCI.lSil DKAMATIC PORTS. 



Men's A'))/iir(S nunc linnl niul subtle than '>Vomen'a. 
How stublKirnly tliis I'oUow aiKswor'd nic ! 
Tlieiv is a vilo dislioiirst frii-k in man, 
Moiv tlinn in wonirn : all \\\r mhmi I nicrt 
Appear thus to n(o, aro liarsli ami ni(l(>, 
And liav(> a suhtilty in cvrrvlltini;;. 
\\ liiili Io\(' ('(Hild lu-M'i" iuuiw ; lint w (^ I'ond wointMi 
Harbor llii" casitvs) ai|d suioolliosi thouglils, 
And tliinlv all shall lio so ; it is unjust 
'I'hal u\rn and women should ho matciit together. 



PIllLASTKR; OU, LOVK LIKS A iU-KF.DlNc; : A TKAGl-COMEDY. 
PY FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCIIEU. 

r/ii/iist<r tifts t/if Princt'sn .Iretfiusa Aow he first fotmd the boy Bellario 

1 hnvo a hoy s(>nl hy llu^ ii,ods, 

Not yot s(VMi in the court ; huntins; tln^ hut-k. 

found him sitlinu; by a ibuntain siilo. 
Of which ho borrow 'd some to (]Uonoh his thirst, 
And paid th(> nymj)!! again as nuich in tears; 
A i);arhuid hiy him by, made by himself, 
0\' many si-veral flowers, bred in the bay, 
Stuek in that mystic order, that the rareness 
i>(^lii:;hted me: but tner wluMi he turuM 
iiis lender eves upon th(>m, h»^ would weep, 
As if lu> meani to make tlu>m jrrow again. 
Seeing sueh pretty ladph^ss iimoeenee 
l)w(>ll in his face, 1 ask'd l»im all his story ; 
lie told mt> that iiis parents gentle died, 
lioaving him to the merey of the tields, 
\\'hieh gave him roots ; and of the crystal springs, 
Wliieh tlid not stop their courses ; and the sun, 
\^'hici^ still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light. 
Then took Ik^ up his garland antl did show, 
What every How(M-, as country people hold. 
Did signify ; and iiow all orii<>r'd thus, 
i'Aprest his grief: and to mv thouiihis did read 



I'lllLASTKU. HI 



Tho prottipst lecture (tfliis cdimtry ail 

Tliat could be vvisliM, hu llml, iii<'lliuii<r|it, I could 

Have Mtudifd it. 1 gladly t'lilcrlniii'd liiin, 

Who was as j^Uid to lollovv ; nnd liavc ^nl. 

The trustiest, luviiifj'st, and the frciiilcst Imy, 

That over inaslir l<('|it : liini will I send 

'I'd wail on voii, and hear our iiiddcn love. 

J'/ii/uMltr pnj'rrs liillnrio to l/ir Snvirr of the Princeas ./Jrtlhuaa. 

Phi. And thou shall find Ikm" honoruhle, hoy, 
Full of regard unio thy tender youth, 
For thine own modesty ; and (iir my sake, 
Apter to j^ive, than tliou wilt he to ask, a,y<', or <lnsorve. 

He//. Sir, yon did lake me oj) wlir^n I was nothing, 
And only yil am something'; hy heing yours; 
^'on trnstrd me mduiown ; and that whicdi you are apt 
To construe a simple innocence in me, 
Perhaps might have! heen craft, the tMuming of a hoy 
Ilarden'd in lies and theft; yet ventur'd you 
To part my miscu'ies atid mo : (or which, 
I never can e.xpect to serve a lady 
'J'hat hears more honor in her hreast than you. 

/'/(./. Hut, hoy, it will prefer the(! ; thou art young. 
And hear 'st a childish ovtu'llowing love* 
To them that clap thy clan-ks and speak the(^ fair y(!t. 
But whcin thy judgrrKMit comes to riih; those passions, 
Thou wilt remend)er hest those (tarid'nl friends 
That placi'd thee in the nohlest way of life; 
She is a princess I prefer thee to. 

Bclf. In that small titne that I have se(!ii tlie wc^rld, 
I never knew a man hasty to part 
With a servant hr- thought trusty ; T remcrnhor, 
My hither would pnder the hoys Ur. kept 
To gr(!ater m(!ii than he, hut did it not 
Till they were grown too saucy for himself. 

/'/(/. Why, gentle hoy, I find no fault at all 
In thy hehavior. 

Bf/L Sir, if I have made 



112 EN(iLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



A fiuilt of ignorance, instruct my youth ; 
I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn. 
Age and experience will adorn my mind 
With larger knowledge : and if I have done 
A wilful fault, think me not past all hope 
For once ; what master holds so strict a hand 
Over his boy, that he will part with him 
Without one warning ? Let me be corrected 
To break my stubbornness if it be so, 
Ratlior than turn me oif, and 1 shall mend. 

Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay, 
That (trust me) I could weep to part with thee. 
Alas, r do not turn thee off; thou knowest 
It is my business that doth call thee hence. 
And when thou art with hor thou dwell'st with me : 
Think so, and 'tis so ; and when time is full. 
That thou hast well discharg'd this heavy trust, 
Laid on so weak a one, I will again 
With joy receive thee ; as I live, I will ; 
Nay weep not, gentle boy ; 'tis more than time 
Thou didst attend the princess. 

Bell. I am gone ; 
But since 1 am to part with you, my lord, 
And none knows whether I shall live to do 
More service for you, take this little prayer ; 
Heaven bless your loves, your lights, all your designs. 
May sick men. if they have your wish, be well ; 
And ln.av n hate those you curse, though I be one. 

Bellario describes to the Princess Arethusa the manner of his 
master Philaster's love for her. 

Are. Sir, you are sad to change your service, is 't not so ? 

Bell. Madam, I have not chang'd : I wait on you, 
To do him service. 

Are. Thou disclaim'st in me ; 
Tell me thy name. 

Bell. Bellario. 

Are. Thou canst sing and play ? 



PlllLASTEK. 113 



Bell. If grief will give me leave, madam, I can. 

Are. Alas! what kind of grief can thy years know ? 
Had'st thou a curst master when thou went'st to school ? 
Thou art not capable of any other grief; 
Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be. 
When no breath troubles them : believe me, boy, 
Can* seeks out wrinkled brows, and hollow eyes, 
And builds himself caves to abide in them. 
Come, sir, tell me truly, does your lord love me ? 

Bell. Love, madam ? I know not what it is. 

Are. Canst thou know grief, and never yet knew'st love ? 
Thou art decciv'd, boy. Does he speak of me 
As if he wish'd me well '? 

Bell. If it be love, 
To forget all respect of his own friends, 
In thinking of your face ; if it be love. 
To sit cross-arm'd and sigh away the day. 
Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud 
And hastily, as men i' the streets do fire ; 
If it be love to weep him.self away, 
When he but hears of any lady dead. 
Or kill'd, because it might have been your chance ; 
If when he goes to rest (which will not be) 
'Twixt every prayer he says to name you once, 
As others drop a bead, be to be in love ; 
Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you. 

Are. O you 're a cunning boy, and taught to lie 
For your lord's credit ; but thou know'st a lie 
Thai bears this sound, is welcomer to me 
Than any truth that says he loves me not. 

Philaster is jealous ofBELLARio with the Princess. 

Bell. Health to you, my lord ; 
The princess doth commend her love, her life. 
And this unto you. 

Phi. O Bellario, 
Now I perceive she loves me, she does show it 
In loving thee, my boy, she has made thee brave. 

PART 11. 9 



114 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Bell. My lord, she has attired me past my wish, 
Past my desert, more fit for her attendant. 
Though far unfit for me who do attend. 

Phi. Thou art grown courtly, boy. O let all women 
That love black deeds learn to dissemble here. 
Here by this paper she does write to me 
As if her heart were mines of adamant 
To all the world besides, but unto me 
A maiden snow that melted with my looks. 
Tell nie, my boy, how doth the princess use thee ? 
For I shall guess her love to me by that. 

Bell. Scarce like her servant, but as if I were 
Something allied to her; or had preserv'd 
Her life three times by my fidelity ; 
As mothers fond do use their only sons ; 
As I 'd use one that 's left unto my trust. 
For whom my life should pay if he met harm, 
So she does use me. 

PM. VVhy, this is wond'rous well : 
But what kind language does she feed thee with ? 

BcU. Why, she does tell nx\ she will trust my youth 
With all her loving secrets, and does call me 
Her pretty servant, bids me weep no more 
For leaving you ; she 'U see my services 
Regarded : and such words of that soft strain, 
That I am nearer weeping when she ends 
Than ere she spake. 

Phi. This is much better still. 

Bell. Are you ill, my lord ? 

Phi. Ill ? No, Bellario. 

Bell. Methinks your words 
Fall not from otf your tongue so evenly. 
Nor is there in your looks that quietness. 
That I was wont to see. 

Phi. Thou art deceiv'd, boy. — And she strokes thy head ? 

Bell Yes. 

Phi. And she does clap thy cheeks ? 

Bell. She does, mv lord. 



PHILASTER. 11 1> 



Phi. And she does kiss thee, boy, ha ? 

Bell. How, my lord ? 

Phi. She kisses thee ? 

Bell. Not so, my lord. 

Phi. Come, come, I knoV she does. 

Bell. No, by my life. 
Aye, now I see why my disturbed thoughts 
Were so perplext when first I went to her ; 
My heart held augury. You are abus'd. 
Some villain has abus'd you ; I do see 
Whereto you tend ; fall rocks upon his head. 
That put this to you ; 'tis some subtle train 
To bring that noble frame of yours to nought. 

Phi. Thou think'st I will be angry with thee. Come, 
Thou shalt know all my drift. I hate her more 
Than I love happiness, and plac'd thee there 
To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds. 
Hast thou discover 'd ? is she fal'n to lust, 
As I would wish her ? Speak some comfort to me. 

Bell. My lord, you did mistake the boy you sent ; 
Had she a sin that vvay, hid from the world, 
I would not aid 

Her base desires ; but what I came to know 
As servant to her, I would not reveal. 
To make my life last ages. 

Phi. O my heart ! 
This is a salve worse than the main disease. 
Tell me thy thoughts ; for I will know the least 
That dwells within thee, or will rip thy heart 
To know it ; I will see thy thoughts as plain 
As I do know thy face. 

Bell. Why, so you do. 
She is (for aught I know) by all the gods, 
As chaste as ice ; but were she foul as hell, 
And I did know it, thus ; the breath of kings. 
The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls of brass, 
Should draw it from me. 

Phi. Then it is no time 



ENGLISH DUAMATiC POE'l S. 



To dally with thee ; I will take thy life, 
For I do hate thee ; I could curse thee now. 

Bell. If you do hato, you could not curse me worse ; 
The gods have not a punishment in store 
Greater for me than is your hate. 

Phi. Fie, fie, 
So young and so dissembling ! fear'st thou not death ? 
Can boys contemn that 1 

Bell. O, what a boy is he 
Can be content to live to be a man, 
That sees the best of men thus passionate, 
Thus without reason ? 

Phi. Oh, but thou dost not know what 'tis to die. 

Bell. Yes, I do know, my lord. 
'Tis loss than to be born ; a lasting sleep, 
A quiet resting from all jealousy ; 
A thing we all pursue ; 1 know besides 
It is but giving over of a game 
That must be lost. 

Phi. But there an- pams, false boy, 
For perjur'd souls ; think but on these, and then 
Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all. 

Bell. May they fall all upon me whilst I live, 
If I be perjured, or ever thought 
Of that you charge me with ; if I be false, 
Send me to suifer in those punishments 
You speak of; kill me. 

Phi. O, what should I do ? 
Why, who can but believe him ? He does swear 
So earnestly, that if it were not true, 
The gods would not endure him. Rise, Bellario, 
Thy protestations are so deep, and thou 
Dost look so truly when thou utter'st them. 
That though 1 know them false, as were my hopes, 
1 cannot urge thee further ; but thou wert 
To blame to injure me, for I must love 
Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon 
Thy tender youth : a love from me to thee 



PHIL ASTER. 117 



Is firm whate'er thou dost : it troubles me 
That I have call'd the blood out of thy cheeks, 
That did so well become thee : but, good boy, 
Let me not see thee more ; something is done 
That will distract me, that will make me mad, 
If I behold thee ; if thou tender 'st me. 
Let me not see thee. 

Bell. I will fly as far 
As there is morning, ere I give distaste 
To that most honor'd mind. But through these tears, 
Shed at my hopeless parting, I can sec 
A world of treason practis'd upon you, 
And her, and me. Farewell for ever more ; 
If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead, 
And after find n)e loyal, let there be 
A tear shed from you in my memory, 
And I shall rest at peace. 

Bellario, discovered to be a Woman, confesses the motive for her disguise 
to have been Love for Prince Philaster. 

My father would oft speak 

Your worth and virtue, and as I did grow 

More and more apprehensive, I did thirst 

To see the man so prais'd, but yet all this 

Was but a maiden longing, to be lost 

As soon as found, till sitting in my window, 

Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god 

I thought (but it was you) enter our gates ; 

My blood flew out, and back again as fast 

As I had puft it forth, and suck'd it in 

Like breath ; then was I call'd away in haste 

To entertain you. Never was a man 

Heav'd from a sheep-cot to a sceptre, rais'd 

So high in thoughts as I ; you left a kiss 

Upon these lips then, which 1 mean to keep 

From you for ever ; I did hear you talk 

Far above singing ; after you were gone, 

I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd 



lis ENOLlSll DRAMATIC POETS. 



What stlrr'd it so. Alas ! I found it love, 

Yet far from lust, for could I have but liv'd 

In pivsence of you, I had had my end. 

For this I did delude my noble father 

With a feign'd pilgrimage, and drest myself 

In habit of a boy, and, for I knew 

My birth no match for you, I was past hope 

Of having you. And understanding well, 

That when 1 made discovery of my sex, 

I could not stay with you, 1 made a vow 

By all the most religious things a maid 

Could call together, never to be known. 

Whilst there was hope to hid(> me from men's eyes, 

For other than I seeni'd ; that I might ever 

Abide with you : then sate I by the fount 

Where first you took me up.* 

* The character of IJollario must have been extremely popular in its 
day. For many years at'tor the date of Pliilaster's first exhibition on the 
stajje, scarce a phiy can be found without one of these women iia^es in it, 
followinj:; in the train of some pre-eni;aged lover, calling on tlie gods to bless 
her happy rival (his mistress) whom no doubt she secretly curses in her 
heart, giving rise to many pretty eqiiivo(pics by the way on the confusion 
of sex, and either made happy at i;ist by some surprising turn of fate, or 
dismissed with the joint pity of the lovers and tiie audience. Our ances- 
tors seem to liave been wonderfully delighted with tliese transformations of 
sex. Women's parts were then acted by young men. What an odd double 
confusion it must liave made, to see a boy play a woman playing a man : one 
cannot (hscntangle the perplexity witliout some violence to the imagination. 

Donne lias a copy of verses addrest to l>is mistress, dissuading her from 
a resolution, wliich she seems to have taken up from some of these scenical 
representations, of following him abroad as a page. It is so earnest, so 
weighty, so rich in poetry, in sense, in wit, and pathos, that I have thought 
fit to insert it, as a solemn close in future to all such sickly fancies as he 
there deprecates. The story of his romantic and unfortunate marriage with 
the daughter of Sir George Moore, the Lady here supposed to be addrest, 
may be read in Walton's Lives. 

ELEGY. 
Hy our first sU-ange and fatal interview, 
By all desires which thereof did ensue, 
I5y our long striving hopes, by that remorse 
Which my words' masculine persuasive force 



PHIL ASTER. 119 



JVaturnl JInlipalhies. 
Nature that lov(\s not to bo questioned 
Why siio did this, or that, hut lias her ends, 

Bo^ot in tlu'O, and by the innmory 
or hurts, which spies and riviils thiiiilciiiMl me, 
I ciilnily ho\r. Hut hy thy fiithor's wraUi, 
lly iiU pains wiiich want and divorccnuMil liatli, 
I conjuro thou; and all tho oaths, which I 
And thou havo sworn to seal joint constancy, 
1 here nnsvvcar, atid overswcar them tiius : 
Thou shall not love hy nioaiis so dangerous. 
Temper, O fair love, love's impetuous rago ; 
Be my true mistress, not my reigned pa^o. 
• I'll (;o, and, hy thy kind leave, leave hohind 
Thee, only worthy to nurse in my mind 
Thirst to come hack ; O, if thou die before, 
My soul from other lands to thee shall soar. 
Thy (else almif^hty) beauty cannot move 
Rag(' from the seas, nor thy love teach them love, 
Nor tame wild Boreas' harshness ; thou hast read 
How roughly ho in pieces shivered 
The fair Orithea, whom he swore; he lov'd. 
Fall ill or K"<'<1> 'tis madiifss to have prov'd 
Dangers unurKe<l ; feed on this flattery, 
That absent lovers one in th' other be. 
Dissemble notbinR, not a boy, nor change 
Thy body's habit, nor mind : be not strange 
To tiiyself only. All will spy in thy face 
A blusbinf? womaidy discoverinf? f^race. 
Richly cloath'd apes are call'd apes, and as soon 
Eclips'd as brif^ht we call the moon the moon. 
Men of France, chanKeai)le catnelions. 
Spittles of diseases, shops of fashions. 
Lives' fuellers, aTid the ri^htest company 
Of players which upon Hk; world's sta^e be, 
Will too too (piickly know thee: and alas, 
Th' indifll'rent Italian, as wo pass 
His warm land, wciU content to tbiidt thee page. 
Will hiuit thee with such lust, and hideous ra>!;e. 
As Lot's fair guests were vext. But none of these, 
Nor spunjiy Aydro[)ti(|ue Dutch shall Uiee displease. 
If thou stay here. O stay here ; for, for thee 
En(;land is only a worthy gallery. 
To walk in cxi)Cctation, till from thence 
Our greatest king call thee to his presence. 



120 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

And knows she does well, never gave the world 

Two things so opposite, so contrary, 

As he and I am : if a bowl of blood 

Drawn from this arm of mine would poison thee 

A draught of his would cure thee. 

Interest in Virtue. 

Why, my lord, are you so moved at this ? 

When any falls from virtue, I am distract, 
I have an interest in 't. 



CUPID'S REVENGE: A TRAGEDY. BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT 
AND JOHN FLETCHER. 

Leucippus, the King's Son, takes to mistress Bacha, a Widotv ; but being 
questioned by his Father, to preserve her honor, swears that she is chaste. 
The old King admires her, and on the credit of that Oath, while his 
Son is absent, nia7-ries her. Leucippus,when he discovers the dreadful 
consequences of the deceit which he had ttscd to his Father, counsels his 
friend Ismcnus never to speak a falsehood in any case. 

Leu. My sin, Ismenus, has wrought all this ill : 
And I beseech thee to be warn'd by me, 
And do not lie, if any man should ask thee 
But how thou dost, or what o'clock 'tis now, 
Be sure thou do not lie, make no excuse 
For him that is most near thee ; never let 
The most ofHcious falsehood 'scape thy tongue ; 
For they above (that are entirely truth) 

When I am gone, dream me some happiness ; 
Nor let thy looks our long hid love confess ; 
Nor praise, nor dispraise me, nor bless, nor curse. 
Openly love's force ; nor in bed friglit thy nurse 
With midnights' starlings, crying out, oh, oh, 
Nurse, my love is slain, I saw him go 
O'er the white Alps alone ; I saw liim, I, 
Assail'd, fight, taken, stabb'd, blood, fall, and die 
Augur me better chance, except dread Jove 
Think it enough for me to liave had thy love. 



CUPID'S REVENGE. 121 



Will make that seed which thou hast sown of lies, 

Yield miseries a thousand fold 

Upon thine head, as they have done on mine. 

Leucippus and his wicked Mother-in-law, Bacha, are left alone together 
for the first time after her marriage with the King, his Father. 

Bach. He stands 
As if he grew there, with his eyes on earth. 
Sir, you and I when we were last together 
Kept not this distance, as we were afraid 
Of blasting by ourselves. 

Leu. Madam, 'tis true, 
Heaven pardon it. 

Bach. Amen, sir : you may think 
That I have done you wrong in this strange marriage. 

Leu. 'Tis past now. 

Bach. But it was no fault of mine : 
The world had call'd me mad, had I refus'd 
The king : nor laid I any train to catch him, 
It was your own oaths did it. 

Leu. 'Tis a truth. 
That takes my sleep away ; but would to heaven, 
If it had so been pleas'd, you had refus'd him. 
Though I had gratified that courtesy 
With having you myself: but since 'tis thus, 
I do beseech you that you will be honest 
From henceforth ; and not abuse his credulous age, 
Which you may easily do. As for myself. 
What I can say, you know alas too well, 
Is tied within me ; here it will sit like lead. 
But sliall offend no other, it will pluck me 
Back from my entrance into any mirth. 
As if a servant came and whisper'd with me 
Of some friend's death : but I will bear myself 
To you, with all the due obedience 
A son owes to a mother ; more than this 
Is not in me, but I must leave the rest 
To the just gods, who in their blessed time, 



122 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

When they have given me punishment enough 
For my rash sin, will mercifully find 
As unexpected luciins to ease my grief 
As they did now to bring it. 

Bach. Grown so godly ? 
This must not be, and I will be to you 
No other than a natural mother ought ; 
And for my honesty, so you will swear 
Never to urge me, I shall keep it safe 
From any other. 

Leu. Bless me, 1 should urge you ! 

Bach. Nay, but swear then, that I may be at peace. 
For I do feel a weakness in myself 
That can deny you nothing ; if you tempt me 
I shall embrace sin as it were a friend, 
And run to meet it. 

Leu. If you knew how far 
It were from me, you would not urge an oath. 
But for your satisfaction, when I tempt you 

Bach. Swear not. I cannot move him. This sad talk 
Of things past help, docs not become us well. 
Shall I send one for my nmsicians, and we'll dance ' 

Leu. Dance, madam ? 

Bach. Yes, a lavolta. 

Leu. I cannot dance, madam. 

Bach. Then let's be merry. 

Leu. I am as my fortunes bid me. 
Do not you see me sour ? 

Bach. Yes. 
And why think you I smile ? 

Leu. 1 am so far from any joy myself, 
I cannot fancy a cause of mirth. 

Bach. I'll tell you. We are alone. 

Leu. Alone ! • 

Bach. Yes. 

Leu. 'Tis true : what then ? 

Bach. What then ? 
You make my smiling now break into laughter : 



CUPID'S REVENGE. 183 



What think you is to he done then ? 

Leu. Wo siiould pray to heaven for mercy. 
Buck. Pray ! tluit were a way indeed 
To pass the time. 

Leu. I dare not think 1 understand you. 

Bach. I must teach you then. Come kiss me. 

Leu. Kiss you ? 

Bach. Yes, be not asham'd : 
You did it not yourself, I will forgive you. 

Leu. Keep, you disi)loase(l gods, the due respect 
I ought to bear unto this wicked woman, 
As she is now my mother : haste within me, 
Lest I add sins to sins, till no repentance 
Will cure me. 

Bach. Leave these melancholy moods, 
That I may swear thee welcome on thy lips 
A thousand times. 

Leu. Pray leave this wicked talk ; 
You do not l^ow to what my father's wrong 
May urge me. 

Bach. I'm careless, and do weigh 
'I'hc world, my life, and all my after hopes. 
Nothing without thy love : mistake me not. 
Thy love, as I have had it, free and open 
As wedlock is within itself, what say you? 

Leu. Nothing. 

Bach. Pity me, behold a duchess 
Kneels for thy mercy. What answer will you give ? 

Leu. They that can answer must be less amaz'd 
Than I am now : you see my tears deliver 
My meaning to you. 

Bach. Shall I be contemn d ? 
Thou art a beast, worse than a savage beast, 
To let a lady kneel. 

Leu. 'Tis your will, heaven : but let me bear me 
Like myself, however she does. 

Bach. How fond was I 
To beg thy love ! I'll force thee to my will. 



124 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Dost thou not know that I can make the king 
Doat as my list ? yield quickly, or, by heaven, 
I'll have thee kept in prison for my purpose. 

Leu. All you have nam'd, but making of me sin 
With you, you may command, but never that : 
Say what you will, I'll hear you as becomes me : 
If you speak, I will not follow your counsel, 
Neither will I tell the world to your disgi'ace, 
But give you the just honor 
That is due from me to my father's wife. 

Bach. Lord, how full of wise formality you're grown 
Of late : but you were telling me. 
You could have wish'd that I had married you ; 
If you will swear so yet, I'll make away 
The king. 

Leu. You are a strumpet. 

Bach. Nay I care not 
For all your railings : they will batter walls 
And take in towns as soon as trouble me : ^ 

Tell him ; I care not ; I shall undo you only. 
Which is no matter. 

Leu. I appeal to you, 
Still, and for ever, that are and cannot be other. — 
Madam, I see 'tis in your power 
To work your will on him : and I desire you 
To lay what trains you will for my wish'd death, 
But suffer him to find his quiet grave 
In peace ; alas he never did you wrong ; 
And farther I beseech you pardon me 
For the ill word I gave you, for however 
You may deserve, it became not me 
To call you so, but passion urges mf; 
1 know not whither ; my heart break now, and ease me ever. 



THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. 125 



THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. BY JOHN FLETCHER. 

Clorin, a Shepherdess, watching by the Grave of her Lover, is found by 

a Satyr. 

Clor. Hail holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace 
The truest man that ever fed his flocks 
By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly. 
Thus I salute thy grave, thus do I pay 
My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes, 
To thy still loved ashes ; thus I free 
Myself from all ensuing heats and fires 
Of love: all sports, delights, and jolly games. 
That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off. 
Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt 
With youthful coronals, and lead the dance. 
No more the company of fresh fair maids 
And wanton shepherds be to me delightful : 
Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes 
Under some shady dell, when the cool wind 
Plays on the leaves : all be far away, 
Since thou art far away, by whose dear side 
How often have I sate crown'd with fresh flowers 
For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's boy 
Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook. 
And hanging script of finest cordovan. 
But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee, 
And all are dead but thy dear memory : 
Tiiat shall out-live thee, and shall ever spring, 
Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing. 
And here will I in honor of thy love. 
Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys 
That former times made precious to mine eyes, 
Only rememb'ring what my youth did gain 
In the dark hidden virtuous use of herbs, 
That will I practise, and as freely give 
All my endeavors, as I gain'd them free. 
Of all green wounds I know the remedies 
In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes, 



126 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Or charm'd with povvorful words of wicked art ; 
Or ho. tlioy love-sick, or througli too much heat 
Grown wild, or limalic ; their eyes, or ears, 
Thiok'ned with misty lilm of dulling rheum : 
These I can cure, such secret virtue lies 
In herbs applied by a virgin's hand. 
My meat shall be what these wild woods afford. 
Berries and cliestmits, j)lantrtins, on whose cheeks 
The sun sits smiling, and th(> lofty fruit 
Pull'd from the fair head of the straight-grown pine. 
On these I '11 feed with free content and rest, 
When night shall blind the world, by thy side blest. 

Ji Satyr enters. 

Sali/r. Through yon same bending plain 
That flings his arms down to the main, 
And througli these thick woods have I run, 
Whose bottom never kist the sun. 
Since the lusty spring began 
All to please my master Pan, 
Have 1 trotted without rest 
To get him fruit ; for at a feast 
Tie (Mitertains this coming night 
His |)uruniour the Syrinx bright: 
Put behold a fairer sight ! 
By that heavenly form of thine, 
Brightest fair, thou art divine, 
Sprung from great inunortal race 
Of the gods, for in thy face 
Shines more awful majesty. 
Than dull weak mortality 
Dare with misty eyes behold, 
And live : therefore on this mold 
Lowly do I bend my knee 
In worship of thy deity. 
Deign it, goddess, from my hand 
To receive whate'er this land 
From her fertile won>b doth send 



TMK I'Airill'lJL SHKPHKRDESS. 197 



Of hor clioice fruits : and but lend 

Belief to that the Satyr tells, 

Fairer by thn famous wells 

To this |)res(!nt day no'cr grew, * 

Never better, nor more true. 

Here Ix- grapes whose lusty blood 

Js the ji'arned poet's good, 

Sweeter yet did never crown 

'I'he head of Macehus ; nuts more brown 

Than iho stjuirrels teeth that crack them : 

Deign, O fairest fair, to take them : 

For these, black-eyed Driopo 

Ilath oftentimes commandcfd me 

With my clasped knee to climb. 

See how well the lusty time 

Hath deekt their rising cheeks in red, 

Such as on your lips is spread. 

Here be berries for a «iu(!en, 

Some be rod, some be grficii, 

These are of that luscious meat 

The great god Pan himsrlfdoth eat: 

All these, and what the woods can yield, 

The hanging mountain, or the fifjld, 

I freely oiler, and ere long 

Will bring you more, mon; sweet and strong ; 

Till when, hunddy leavt; I take. 

Lest the great Pan do awake 

That sleeping lies in a deep glade, 

Under a broad l)e(!ches shade. 

I irujst go, I must run, 

Swifter than the fiery sun. \Exit. 

Clor. And all my fears go with thee 
What greatness, or what private hidden power. 
Is there iti me to draw submission 
From this rud(! man anil beast? sure 1 jini mortal ; 
The daughter of a shepherd ; he was mortal. 
And she that bore me mortal ; prick my hand 
And it will bleed ; a fever shakes me, and 



1S8 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

The sclf-snnio wind that makes the young lambs shrink, 
Makes iiu> u-i'dUI : my fear says I am mortal: 
Yet I have heiinl (my mother told it me) 
And now 1 do believe it, if 1 keep 
My virjjin flower uncroj)!, pure, chaste, and fair; 
No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend, 
Satyr, or othiM- power that haunts tiie groves, 
Shall iuirt my hody, or by vain illusion 
Diaw me to wander afler idle tires, 
Ih' voices I'alling me in dead of night 
To make me follow, and so tole mo on 
Through miri\ and standing pools, to find my ruin. 
Mise w liy should this rough thing, who never knew 
Maimers nor smootli lunnainty, whose heats 
\rr nnigiier tlian himself, and more missliapeii, 
'I'hus uiililly kneel to me ? — Sure tliere "s a power 
111 tiiat great name of Virgin, that binds fast 
All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites 
Tiiat break their eonliues. Then, strong Chastity, 
I've iliou my strongest guard ; for liere 1 '11 dwell 
In opposition against fate and hell. 

PiCKUiOT and AMORiix apiioint lo iiicrt at the Virtuous Well. 

Peri. Stay, gentle AmonM. tliou fair-brow'd maid, 
'I'hv sh(>ph(M'd prays thee stay, that holds thee dear. 
l''<iual with ins soul's good. 

Amo. Speak, 1 give 
Thee freedom, shepherd, and thy tongue be still 
The same it ever was, as free from ill, 
As he M'hose conversation never kiKnv 
The court or city, be thou ever true. 

/'(77. WliiMi I llill oil' from my all'eetion. 
Or mingle my clean thoughts with ill di^sires, 
l-'irst lt>t our great (lod ceas(> to keep my tlocks. 
That being left alom^ without a guard. 
The wolf, or winter's rage, or summer's gnnit heat, 
And want oC water, rots, or wiiat tons 
or ill is vt>t mikiu^wii. full speivlilv. 



TflE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. 129 



And ill tlunr gcnorul ruin, lit hk! (rrl. 

Amo. I pray tlicc, gciillcj slicpiicril, wisli not so : 
I do bclicvo tlioc, 'tis as iiard (i)i' mo 
To tliiiik tlicf! fjilsc, uiid liunicr tliuii ((>r tlieo 
To iioM UK! foul. 

I'rri. () you arc fairer far 
Tliau tii(! cliasto blushing niorii, or tliat fair star 
Tiiat {fuidcs tlm wand'riug soa-iuen tlirougli tho deep, 
Strui<^lilcr lliau strai<rlitcst pine upon tliC! steep 
I lead of an a^^ed niouutaiu, atid more vvliite 
Tliaii the new milii, we strip before day-li<flit 
I''rom tile full-freigiitt!(l bags of our fair lloelis. 
V our hair more beauteous tlian those hanging locks 
Of young Apollo. 

A/iio. Shepherd, he not lost, 
Y'are sail'd too liir already (Vom the coast 
Of our discourse. 

Peri. Did you not t(!ll me onco 
I siiould not lov(! alone, I shoidd not lose 
Those many passions, vows, and holy oaths, 
r ve sent to JieavtMi ? did you not give your hand, 
iivcn that fair hand, in hostage! f Do not then 
Give back again those sweets to olhcn- men. 
You yourself vow'd wc^re mine. 

Amo. Shej)hc!rd, so far as maiden's modesty 
May giv(! assurance, I am once more thine. 
On(;e morc! 1 give my hand ; Ix! ever i'me 
From that great (iie to laitli, lljul j(!alousy. 

Prri. I tak(i it as my best good ; and desire, 
For stronger cotdirmation of our love, 
To meet this happy night in that fair grove, 
When; all true slu phcrds have rewarded been 
For their long service. Say, sweet, shall it hold ? 

Afiio. Di-ar friend, you nnist not blame me if I make 
A doubt of what the sih^nt night may do — 
Maids nui.st he fearfid. 

Prri. O do nol wrong my boniest simph' truth. 
Myself anil niv allictions are as pure 
I'Airr II. lit 



i;U) l';N(il.lSII DK AiMA'l'lC I'OM'I'.S. 



As llidse rhasii' (liiiius llinl Imiii ln'liuc llii' slirino 

Of IIk' jfrc.il. Diiiii: only my iiitiiil 

To (Iriiw you lliitlicr, was lo iili;;lit mii' Irollis, 

Willi iiiti'rcliiiiiji'o dl' iMiiliial cliiislr iiiiljniccs^ 

Anil ('("nMUdiiious tyiiij;' oi' ourselves. 

l'\)V to lliiit liolv wood is (•onsecriUo 

A Virliioiis Well, iii)oiit whose llnwery hiuiks 

'Pile iiiiiii)le-H>oti'(l liiirii^s tluiiite llieir rounds 

My llio i)iile niooii-sliiiie, dippiuff olleulinics 

'I'lieir stolen cliildreii, so to iniilv(> tlieiu IVeo 

l''roin dyliifj; llesli, iind dull mortiility. 

|{y this fair fount, hath nmny ti siiepherd sworn 

And ;^iv(in away his freiMloin, many a troth 

Wvvu i)li<fht, which neitlu>r envy or old tinio 

(\)uld ev(U- hreak, with many a chaste kiss given 

In hope of comiiin' liapi)iuess : Ity this 

l''resii fountain many a itlusliiiiij; iimid 

Hath crown'd the lieiul of Ikm- lono- loved shepherd 

With gaudy (lowers, wliilsl he luippy sung 

Lays of his lov(> and dtuir c-aptivily. 

There grow all horhs lit to cool looser llames 

Our sensual parts |)rovoke ; chiding our hloods, 

And qiKMiehing hy their power those hidden sparks 

That ("Ise would l)r(>iik out, and provoke our sonsp 

To open tires — so virtuous is (hat place. 

TIkmi, gentle sheplierd(>ss, hclicvi^ and grant ; 

]u troth it (its not with that faecHo scant 

^'our faithful shepherd of tiiose clmsto desires 

I le ever aim'd at. 

Aiiio. Thou hast prevail'd ; fannvell ; this coming night 
Shall crown thy chaste hopes with long wish'd didight. — 

T/iriiot, (Klniiriiiii the foiistanc// of C/orin lo lur ih<ti/ l.oiur, rr/iTts Iht 
suit of VI or. 
C/oC: Shepherd, 1 pray tlioo stay, whom hast thou l)(>en, 
Or whither go'st thou ? Here be woods as green 
As any, air likewise^ as fresh and sweet, 
As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the (leot 
l''aco of (he curled streams, with llowers as many 



'Illl'. I'AI'llll'lil, SIII'.I'IIKUDKSS. 181 



As thn young Hprinj; gives, ami us clioicn as any. 

IliiH) bn all new (loliglits, v.ool st reams and wells, 

Arbors o'ergrowii with woodbines, eaves and dells, 

('lioose wliere lliou wilt, wliiist, 1 sil, by and sing, 

Or gatli(!r rnslies to make many a ring 

For thy long fingers : tell tliet! tales of love, 

I low tli(! pale I'lidibe, bunting in a grove;, 

First saw the boy lOndymion, from whoso oyoa 

She took et(!rnal lire that n(!ver dies ; 

How she (viiivey'd him softly iu a sl<!e|), 

I lis temples bound with poppy, to the steep 

I lead of old liatinus, where she stoops cuf.U tiight, 

(jlilding the mountains with her brotluir's light, 

T(» kiss her sweetest. 

7'//r. l''ar from mo are those 
Hot Mashes, br(!(l from wanton Imat and oaso, 
I have fi)rgot what love and loving meatit ; 
RhirncH, Hongs, and merry niurids, that oil an; wut 
To \]\(' soU ears of maids, are strange to me; 
( )rd y I live to admire a (diastily, 
That nctither pb-asing age, smooth tongue, or gold, 
f!ould ever brcfak u|)on, ho pun; a mold 
Is tliiit Inr mind was cast in ; 'tiw to hor 
I only am reserv'd ; sin; is my f(>rm I stir 
liy, br(;athe and move, 'tis she and only she 
Can make m*! happy, or give me misery. 

Clof. (j(xjd sh(;ph(;nl, may a stranger crave to know 
To whom this dear obsorvaneo you do ow(5 ? 

Tkc. You may, and by her virtiK! b^arn to srpiaro 
And 1(!V( I out your life ; i'or to Ix! fair 
And nothing virtuous, ordy (its the eyo 
(Jf gaudy youth and swelling vanity. 
Th(!n know, kIki 's eiill'd the Virgiu of tint (Jrovo, 
Sh»! that hath long sine*! buried her ehiiste love, 
And now lives by bis grave, for whose ditar H(ml 
She hath vow'd hru'sfrlf into the holy roll 
Of strict virginity ; 'lis her I so admire, 
Not any looser blood, or new desirft. 



132 ENGLISH DRAMATIC TOETS, 

Thcnot loves Clorin yet fears to gain his siiit. 

Clor. Shepherd, Iiow cam'st thou hither to this place? 
No way is trodden ; all the verdant grass 
The spring shot up, stands yet unbruised here 
Of any foot, oidy the dappled (l(>er 
Far from tlu> feared sound of crooked horn 
Dwells in this iiistness. 

'rhe. Ciiastor than the morn, 
1 have not wand'red, or by strong illusion 
Into this virtuous place have made intrusion : 
]Ui\ liilher am I come (believe me, fair), 
'J\) s(>ek you out, of whose great good tiic air 
Is full, and strongly labors, whilst the sound 
Hrtniks against heaven, and drives into a stound 
The amazed shepherd, that such virtue can 
He resident in lesser than a man. 

Clor. If any art F have, or hidden skill, 
IVIay cure tiiee of disease, or festor'd ill, 
\Vhose grief or greenness to another's eye 
I\Iay seem unpossible of remedy, 
i liare y(<t undertake it. 

Tltr. 'Tis no pain 
1 suller through disease, no beating vein 
Conveys infection dangerous to the heart, 
No part impostluuued, to be cured by art, 
This body holds, and yet a feller grief 
l^bau ever skilful hand did give n^lic^f 
Dm Us on my soul, and may be lieal'd by you, 
Fair beauteous virgin. 

Clor. Then, shepherd, let mo sue 
To Ivuow thy grief; that man yet never knew 
The May to health, that durst not show his sore. 

Till'. Then, fairest, know 1 love you. 

Clor. Swain, no more. 
Thou hast abused the strictness of this place. 
And otler'd sacrilegious foul disgrace 
To the sweet rest of these interred bones ; 
For tear of whose ascending, fly at once, 



THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. 133 



Thou and thy idle passions, tiiat, thcs sight 

Of dcatii and spcudy vengeance may not fright 

Thy very soul witli horror. 

The. fiCt me nf)t 
(Tiiou all piirfi'ctioii) merit such a h\o\. 
For my true zealous faith. 

Clor. Darcst thou abide 
To see this holy earth at once dividt! 
And givi! her body up ? for sure it will, 
If tiiou pursu'st with wanton tlames to fill 
This hallow'd \)\in;(\ ; therefore! repent and go, 
Whilst I with praise appease his ghost bdow ; 
That else would tell thee, what it were to l)e 
A rival in that virtuous love that he 
Embraces yet. 

The. 'Tis not tlie white or red 
Inhabits in your check, that tiius can wed 
My mind to adoration ; nor your eye, 
Though it be full and fair, your forehead high, 
And smooth as Pelops' shoulder : mA the smile, 
Lies watching in those dimples to beguile 
The easy soul ; your hands and fingers long 
With veins cnamel'd richly ; nor your tongue, 
Though it .spoke sweeter than Arion's harp ; 
Your hair, wove into many a curious warp. 
Able in endless error to enfold 
The wand 'ring soul ; nor the true perfect mold 
Of all your body, which as pure doth show 
In maiden whiteness as the Alpsian snow : 
All these, were but your constancy away, 
Would please me less than a black stormy day 
The wretched seaman toiling tliough the deep. 
Hut whilst this honor'd strictness you dare keep, 
Though all the plagues that e'er begotten were 
In the great womb of air, were settled here, 
In opposition, I would, like the tree. 
Shake otr those drops of weakness, and bo free, 
Even in the arm of (huiger. 



134 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Clor. WouUlst thou have 
Mo rniso again (fond man) from silent grave, 
Thoso sparks that long ago wore buried here 
With my dead friend's cold ashes ? 

The. Dearest dear, 
1 thire not ask it, nor you nuist not grant. 
Stand strongly to your vow, and i\o not faint. 
KtMutMuher how he lov'd ye ; and be still 
'rh(> same, opinion speaks ye 5 let not will, 
And that great god of women, appetite, 
Set up \o\w blood again ; do not invite 
1)esir(* and Faney from their long exile. 
To s(>t them once more in a pleasing smile, 
Kt> like a rock made firmly up 'gainst all 
'riu> i)ow(M' of angry heaven, or the strong fall 
Of iSt>ptnne"s battery ; if ye yieUl, I die 
To all atl'eetion : 'tis that linalty, 
Yi^ tit> unto this grave, 1 so admire; 
Anil yet there's something else I would desire 
It ymi wonld hear me, but withal deny, 
l) Pan. what an uncertain destiny 
Hangs over all my hopt>s ! 1 will retire. 
For if I longer stay, this double lire 
Will lick my life up. 

Clor. The gods give quick release 
And happy cure unto thy hard disease. 

The (iod of t fir liiiur rises with .linoitt in his arms, whom the sullen 
Shepherd has Jhiiiti icoiindeii into hi.i .iftring. 

I\irn- (lo(L Wluit powerful charms my streams do bring 
Hack again unto thtnr spring. 
With such forc(\ that 1 their god, 
Thive times striking with my rod, 
Could not ke(>p them in their ranks? 
i\lv (is.ies shoot iiUo the banks, 
TIkmc s not one that stays and feeds, 
All have hid them in the weeds. 
Here's a mortal almost dead 



TiiK KAi'riii'ui, siii:i'iii;i{i)Kss. 135 



Fal'n into my river IkiuI, 
Iliillow'd so vvilii iiiniiy u spell, 
'I'iiul till now none ever (Ml. 
*Tis u feniuli) young und cleur, 
Cant iti by s(jni(s ruvisher. 
Seo u|njn lutr hreusl u woimkI, 
On wliicli lliert) irt no pluistcir bound. 
Yet slie's wuriri, her pulseH bcut, 
'TiH a sign oflifr) and hoat. 
If tliou Ixf'st a virgin pure, 
1 can give a present cure. 
Tuke u drop into lliy woinid 
From my wutry locks, more roiinil 
Tliun orient |)eurl, and far more [)ur(! 
Than unfliuHtu (IchIi may (^idun!. 
Seo 8iiu pantH, and from lior (losli 
'i'lio warm blood giisbetli out arr(!sb. 
tSlit! is an impoiliitrul muid ; 
I irmst liav(! tiiis bUu^ding staid. 
i''rom my baid<s I |)lii(;k this Hower 
With holy bund, whoso virtuous power 
Is at on(;(! to lieul and draw. 
Th(! blood ntturns. I nev<M- saw 
A fiiirer mrtrtal. Now doth bn^ak 
Her deadly slumber. Virgin, spcuk. 

A?no. Who hath roHtonul my Honso, given mo now breath. 
And I)rf)Ugbt uk; bn(d< out of th(! arms of death? 

Riiier (iv<l. I )iav(! heal'd thy wounds. 

Ai/io. Ah UK! ! 

River Clod. Fear not him that succoi'd iliee. 
I am this fountain's god ; below 
My watfsrs to a rivftr grf<w, 
And 'twixt two bardts with osiers sfft, 
'I'hat ordy pros|)(M- in the wet, 
Through the meadows do they glide, 
Wheeling still on every side, 
Sometimes winding round about, 
'I'o find the evenest channel out ; 



136 ENGLISH DilAMATlC POETS. 



And if thou wilt go with me, 

Leaving mortal company, 

In the cool streams shalt thou lie, 

Free from harm as well as I. 

I will give thee for thy food. 

No fish that useth in" the mud, 

But trout and pike that love to swim 

Where the gravel from the brim 

Through the pure streams may be seen. 

Orient pearl fit for a queen. 

Will I give thy love to win, 

And a shell to keep them in. 

Not a fish in all my brook 

That shall disobey thy look. 

But when thou wilt, come sliding by. 

And iVom thy white hand take a fly. 

And to make thee understand. 

How I can my waves command, 

They shall bubble whilst I sing 

Sweeter than the silver spring. [Sings. 

Do not fear to put thy feet 
JVaked in the rivers sweet : 

Think not leach, or nrwf, or toad. 

Will bite thy foot, wheji thou hast trod ; 
JVbr let the water rising high. 
As thou wadest in, make thee cry 
And sob, but ever live with me. 
And ?iot a wave shall trouble thee. 

Afno. Immortal power, that rulest this holy flood ; 
I know myself unworthy to be woo'd 
By thee, a god : for ere this, but for thee, 
I should have shown my weak mortality. 
Besides, by holy oath betwixt us twain, 
I am betroth'd unto a shepherd swain. 
Whose comely face, I know, the gods above 
May make me leave to see, but not to love. 

River God. May he prove to thee as true. — 



THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. i37 



Fairest virgin, now adieu, 

I must nialce my waters fly, 

Lest they leave tlieir channels dry, 

And beasts that come unto the spring 

Miss their morning's watering : 

Which I would not, for of late 

All the neighbor people sate 

On my banks, and from the fold 

Two white lambs of three weeks old 

Ofier'd to my deity : 

For which this year they shall be free 

From raging floods, that as they pass 

Leave tiicir gravel in the grass : 

Nor shall their meads be overflown, 

When their grass is newly mown. 

Ajno. For thy kindness to me shown, 
Never from thy banks be blown 
Any tree, with windy force, 
Ci'oss thy streams to stop thy course : 
May no beast that comes to drink. 
With his horns cast down thy brink ; 
May none that for thy fish do look, 
Cut thy banks to damm thy brook : 
Bare- foot may no neighbor wade 
In thy cool streams, wife nor maid. 
When the spawn on stones do lie. 
To wash their hemp, and spoil the fry. 

River God. Thanks, virgin, I must down again, 
Thy wound will put thee to no pain : 
Wonder not so soon 'tis gone ; 
A holy hand was laid upon. 

[If all the parts of this Play had been in unison with these innocent 
scenes, and sweet lyric intermixtures, it had been a Poem fit to vie with 
Comus or the Arcadia, to have been put into the hands of boys and virgins, 
to have made matter for young dreams, like the loves of Hermia and 
Lysander. But a spot is on the face of this moon. — Nothing short of in- 
fatuation could have driven Fletcher upon mixing up with this blessedness 
such an ugly deformity as Cloe : the wanton shepherdess ! Coarse words do 



138 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

but wound the ears ; but a character of lewdness affronts the mind. 
Fern-ale lewdness at once shocks nature and morality. If Cloe was meant 
to set off Clorin by contrast, Fletcher should have known that such weeds 
by juxta-position do not set ofi" but kill sweet flowers.] 



THE FALSE ONE: A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. 

Ptolomy, King of Egypt, presents to Ccesar the head of Pompey. CcBsar 
rebukes the Egyptians for their treachery and ingratitude. 

C-ESAR, Anthony, Dollabela, Sceva, Romans; Ptolomy, 
Photinus, Achillas, Egyptians. 

Pho. Hail, conqueror and head of all the world, 
Now this head's off. 

Cas. Ha! 

Pho. Do not shun me, Ca3sar. 
From kingly Ptolomy I bring this present. 
The crown and sweat of thy Pharsalian labor : 
The goal and mark of high ambitious honor. 
Before, thy victory had no name, CsDsar ; 
Tiiy travail and thy loss of blood no recompence ; 
Thou dream'dst of being worthy and of war ; 
And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers ; 
Here they take life, here they inherit honor, 
Grow fix'd and shoot up everlasting triumphs. 
Take it and look upon thy humble servant. 
With noble eyes look on the princely Ptolomy, 
That offers with this head, most mighty Caesar, 
What thou would'st once have given for 't, all Egypt. 

Ach. Nor do not question it, most royal conqueror, 
Nor disesteem the benefit that meets thee, 
Because 'tis easily got, it comes the safer. 
Yet, let me tell thee, most imperious Csesar, 
Though he oppos'd no strength of swords to win this, 
Nor labor'd through no showers of darts and lances, 
Yet here he found a fort that fac'd him strongly, 
An inward war: He was his grandsire's guest, 



THE FALSE ONE. 139 



Friend to his father, and when he was expell'd 
And beaten from this kingdom by strong hand, 
And had none left him to restore his honor, 
No hope to find a friend in such a misery ; 
Then in stept Pompey, took his feeble fortune. 
Strengthen 'd and cherish'd it, and set it right again. 
This was a love to CjBsar ! 

See. Give me hate, gods. 

Pho. This Caesar may account a little wicked ; 
Rut yet remember, if thine own hands, conqueror, 
Had fall'n upon him, what it had been then ; 
If thine own sword liad touch'd his throat, what that way: 
He was thy son-in-law, tliere to be tainted 
Had been most terrible : let the worst be render'd, 
We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent. 

CcES. O Sceva, Sceva, see that head ; see, captains, 
The head of godlike Pompey. 

See. He was basely ruin'd, 
But let the gods be griev'd that sufFer'd it, 
And be you Caesar. 

C(Bs. Oh thou conqueror, 
Thou glory of the world once, now the pity, 
Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus ? 
What poor fate foUow'd thee, and pluck'd thee on 
To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian ; 
The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger. 
That honorable war ne'er taught a nobleness. 
Nor worthy circumstance show'd what a man was; 
That never heard thy name sung but in banquets 
And loose lascivious pleasures ; to a boy, 
That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness. 
No study of thy life to know thy goodness; 
And leave thy nation, nay, thy noble friend. 
Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with thee : 
In soft relenting tears ? Hear me, great Pompey, 
If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee : 
Thou 'st most unnobly robb'd me of my victory, 
My love and mercy. 



140 ENGLISH DRAMATIC I'OEIS. 



Ant. O how hiavo tliese tears show ! 
How oxccUoiit is stinow in an enemy ! 

Dol. Glory appoars not greater tiian this goodness. 

Crt'.v. Euyptiairs, lUire you think your high pyramids, 
Built to outdure the sun as you suppose, 
Where your unworthy kings lie rakM in ashes, 
Are monuments iit for him ? No, brood of Nilus, 
Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven, 
No j)yramids si't otf Ids memories 
But the eternal substance of Ids greatness: 
To which I leave him. Take the head away, 
And with the body give it noble burial. 
Your earth shall nou be bless'd to liold a Roman, 
Whose liraveries all the world's earth cannot balance — 
You look now, king, 

And you that have been agents in this glory. 
For our especial favor? 

Pto/. We desire it. 

Cics. And doubtless you expect rewards i — 
I forgive you all : that's reeompence. 
You are young and ignorant ; lliat pleads your pardon; 
And fear, it may be, more tiian hate provok'd ye. 
Your ministers I must think wanteil judgment. 
And so they err'd ; I am bountiful to thiidi this, 
Believe me, most bountiful ; be you most thankful. 
That bounty share amongst ye : if I knew 
What to send you for a present, king of Kgypt, 
I mean, a head of equal reputation, 

And that you lov'd, though it were your brightest sister's,* 
(But her you hate) I would not be behind ye. 

Ptol. Hear me, great Ceesar. 

Cces. I have heard too much : 
And study not with smooth shows to invade 
My noble mind as you have done my conquest. 
Ye are poor and open : I must tell ye roundly, 
That man that could not reeompence the benefits, 

* Cleopatra 



THE FALSE ONE. 141 



The great and bounteous services of Pompey, 
Can never doat upon the name of CsBsar. 
Though I 

Had hated Pompey, and allow'd his ruin, 
Hasty to please in blood are seldom trusty ; 
And hut 1 stand environ'd with my victories, 
My fortune never failinjr to befriend me, 
My noble strengths and friends about my person, 
I dui-st not try ye, nor expect a courtesy 
Above the pious love you shovv'd to Pompey. 
You 've found me merciful in arguing with you ; 
Swords, hangmen, fires, destructions of all natures, 
Demolrsinncnts of kingdoms, and wliob; I'uins, 
Are wont to be my orators. Turn to tears, 
You wretched and poor .seeds of sun-burnt Egypt : 
And now you 've found the nature of a conqueror. 
That you cannot decline with all your llutterics. 
That where the day gives light will be him.s(!lf still. 
Know how to meet his worth with human courtesi 
Go, and embalm the bones of that great soldier ; 
Howl round about his pile, fling on your spices, 
Make a iSabanan bed, and place this Phoenix 
Where th(! hot sun may emulate his virtues. 
And draw another Pompey from his ashes 
Divinely great, and fix him 'mongst the worthies. 

Ptol. We will do all. 

C(Ps. You 've robb'd him of those tears 
His kindred and his friends kept .sacred for him. 
The virgins of their funeral lamentations; 
And that kind earth that thought to cover him. 
His country's earth, will cry out 'gainst your cruelty. 
And weep unto the ocean for revenge, 
Till Nilus raise his seven heads and devour ye, 
My grief has stopt the rest : when Pompey lived, 
He used you nobly ; now he is dead, u.se him so. 



149 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



LOVE'S PILGRIMAGE: A COMEDY. UY JOHN FLETCHER. 

Leocadia leaves her Father's house, disguised in inan\s apparel, to travel 
in search of Alark-antonio, to whom she is contracted, hut has been 
deserted bt/ him. IVhen at length she meets with him, she Jinds, that by 
a precontract he is the Husband of Theodosia. In this extremity, 
Philippo, Brother to Theodosia, ojffers Leocadia marriage. 

Philippo. Leocadia. 

Phi. Will you not hear me ? 

Leo. I have heard so much, 
Will keep n)e doaf for ever. No, Mark-antonio, 
After thy sentence I may hear no more, 
Thou hast pronounc'd me dead. 

Phi. Appeal to reason : 
She will reprieve you from the power of grief, 
Which rules but in her absence ; liear me say 
A sovereign message from her, which in duty. 
And love to your own safety, you ought hear. 
Why do you strive so ? whither would you fly ? 
You cannot wrest youi-self away from care, 
You may from counsel ; you may shift your place, 
But not your person ; and another clime 
Makes you no other. 

Leo. Oh! 

Phi. For passion's sake 
(Which I do serve, honor, and love in you). 
If you will sigh, sigh here; if you would vary 
A sigh to tears, or out-cry, do it here. 
No shade, no desart, darkness, nor the grave. 
Shall be more equal to your thoughts than I. 
Only but hear me speak. 

Leo. What would you say ? 

Phi. That which shall raise your heart, or pull down mine. 
Quiet your passion, or provoke mine own : 
We nuist have both one balsam, or one wound. 
For know, lov'd fair, 
I have read you tiu'ough, 
And with a wond'ring pity look'd on you. 



LOVE'S PILGRIMAGE. 143 



I have observ'd the method of your blood, 

And waited on it even with sympathy 

Of a like red and paleness in mine own. 

I knew which blush was anger's, which was love's, 

Whicii was tlio eye of sorrow, which of truth, 

And could distinguish honor from disdain 

In every change : and you are worth my study. 

I saw your voluntary misery 

Sustain'd in travel ; a disguised maid, 

Wearied vvitli seeking, and with finding lost, 

Neglected where you hoped most, or put by , 

] saw it, and have laid it to my heart, 

And tiiough it were my sister which was righted, 

Yet being by your wrong, I put off nature, 

Could not be glad, whore I most bound to triumph : 

My care for you so drown'd respect of her. 

Nor did I only apprehend your bonds, 

But studied your release : and for that day 

Have I made up a ransom, brought you a health, 

Pres('rvativ(^ 'gainst chance or injury. 

Please you apply it to the grief; myself. 

Leo. Ah! 

Phi. Nay, do not think me less than such a cure ; 
Antonio was not, and 'tis possible 
Philippo may succeed. My blood and house 
Are as deep rooted, and as fairly spread. 
As Mark-antonio's ; and in that, all seek, 
Fortune hath giv'n him no precedency ; 
As for our thanks to Nature, I may burn 
Incense as much as he ; I ever durst 
Walk with Antonio by the self-same light 
At any feast, or triumph, and ne'er cared 
Which side my lady or her woman took 
In their survey ; I durst have told my tale too, 
Tlioiigli his discourse new ended. 

Leo. My repulse 

Phi. Let not that torture you which makes me happy, 
Nor think that conscience, fair, which is no shame ; 



144 KNCKISU DHAMATIC I'OKTS. 



'Twas no n>|)iilst', il was your ilow rv nilluM": 
Vor llu'i\ mt>tlioiio|i( 11 lliousiuul i>rai'(\s nuM 
To iiialv(\voii lovrly, ami ten lliousaiul slorios 
Oi' constant virtnt>, wliirli yon tli(Mi ont-rcaoliM, 
Jn on(> (>xani|)lo did proi'laini you rich : 
Nor do I lliinU you wnMcluHl or disi>rnctHl 
AOcr fliis sutlrriuff, untl ilo tl»>rt>lorii tako 
Advantai;:i> ol' your n(>od ; hut rather know, 
\ on aro tlio cl>ttr«j;o and husincss of those powoi-s, 
Who, \[kv host tutors, do inlliot liard tusks 
Upon i^rtuit natnn>s, and of nohlcst hopes; 
Road trivial lossons and half-linos to slujrs: 
Thoy that liv(> loni>;, and niMcM" ftxd niisohanco, 
Spond more tlian liall' thoir uijo in ignoranoo. 

Leo. "ris woll you think so. 

Phi. You shall think so too, 
You shall, swoot Loooatlia, und do so. 

Ijio. (.lood sir, no nioro ; you huvo too Itiir a sliapo 
To play so foul a part in, as tho TonipttM'. 
Say that 1 could niako poaco witli fortune ; wiio, 
Who should absolve mo of my vow yet : ha ! 
My ct)ntract nuuh^ I 

Fhi. Your contract ? 

hco. Yes, my contract. 
Am I not his? liis wife ? 

riii, Swoot, nothing loss. 

Leo. 1 have no name thou. 

Phi. Truly thou yon have not. 
How can you ho his wift^, who was before 
Another's luisbiiud ? 

/,(•(). Oil! though ho disptMis(^ 
W"\\\\ ins faith given. 1 t-anuot with mine. 

/'/(/. You do mistak(\ idear soul ; his prm-ontract 
Dotli annul yours, and you have giv'n no faith 
'IMiat ties you, in rt>ligion, or humanity : 
^ on ralhiM- sin agaii\sl that greater precept, 
To covet what's another's; swoot, you do, 
r>rlicv(> me, who dure not urge dishonest things. 



LOVE'S SACRIl'ICR. 145 



Rftriovc lliiit Hcruplo, thoroibn!, and but takn 

Your (luuj^iTs now into your jiulgmfuit's Hcaln, 

And vvci^li iIkmm willi your Hal'rtidH. Think but whilbfir 

Now you (;un ^o ; wlial you can do to livr : 

How nrur you liuvo burr'd ull portH to your own succor, 

JCxccpt tbJH ono tbut I bcire open, love, 

•Should you bo left iilono, you wore a prny 

To the wild lu8t of any, who would look 

Upon this ,shup«> likt^ u tnnptution, 

An<l lliiiiK you wuntlh«! niun you pcrHonato ; 

Would nut regard thJH Hhift, whioh lov*; put on, 

Ah virtu(! (()ru'd, but covet it like vic(! : 

So Hhould you live the wlander of each hox, 

And b(! the child of (irror and of Hliarne ; 

And vvhieh in worse, even Mark-antonio 

Would be call'd just, to turn a wan«lerer ofT, 

And fain*! report you worthy hiw contempt : 

Where, if you make new choice, and Hettle here, 

Ther(! is no furllmr tumuli in thiH flood, 

Each curnMit k(!ep.s hi.s course, and all suspicions 

Sliall return honors. Came yo forth a maid? 

Go home a wife. Alono, and in disf^uise ? 

Go home a waited Lcocadia. 

Go home, and by the virtue; of that charm, 

'I'ransfbrm all mischiefs as you are transform'd, 

Turn your ofleiKb-d fiither's wrath to wonder. 

And all his loud grief to a silent welcome ; 

Unfold the riddles you have made. — What say you ? 

Now is the time ; dcilay is but des[)air ; 

li' you be chang'd, let a kiss t(rll me so. 

Jjco. I am ; but bow, I ratluir feel than know. 

[TliiH JH ono of the rnoHt pli.'n.sinj? if not the rnoHt Hhining Bccncs in 
h'lcrfchr-r. All is Hweot, nutunil, iuid unffjrcod. It iH a copy in which we 
iD;iy Hiipiionn Masiiin^i'r to have profited by the itudying.] 



II 



M6 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



BONDUCA : A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. 

Bonduca, the British Queen, taking occasion from a Defeat of the Ro- 
matis to impeach their Valor, is relniked by Caratach. 

Bonduca, Caratach, Hengo, Nenntus, Soldiers. 

Bon. The hardy Romans ! O ye gods of Britain, 
The rust of arms, tlie blushing shame of soldiers ! 
Are these the men that conquer by inheritance 1 
The fortune-makers ? these the Julians, 
That with the sun measure the end of Nature, 
Making the world but one Rome and one Caesar ? 
Shame, how they flee ! Ceesar's soft soul dwells in them ; 
Their mothers got them sleeping, pleasure nurst them, 
Their bodies sweat with sweet oils, love's allurements, 
Not lusty arms. Dare they send these to seek us. 
These Roman girls ? Is Britain grown so wanton ? 
Twice we have beat them, Neunius, scattered them, 
And though their big-boned Germans, on whose pikes 
The honors of their actions sit in triumph. 
Made themes for songs to shame them : and a woman, 
A woman beat them, Nennius ; a weak woman, 
A woman beat these Romans. 

Car. So it seems. A man would shame to talk so. 

Bon. Who's that? 

Car. I. 

Bon. Cousin, do you grieve at my fortunes ? 

Car. No, Bonduca, 
If I grieve, 'tis at the bearing of your fortunes ; 
You put too much wind to your sail : discretion 
And hardy valor are the twins of honor, 
And nurs'd together, make a conqueror ; 
Divided, but a talker. 'Tis a truth. 
That Rome has fled before us twice, and routed. 
A truth we ought to crown the gods for, lady, 
And not our tongues. A truth, is none of ours, 
Nor in our ends, more than the noble bearing : 
For then it leaves to be a virtue, lady. 



BONDUCA. 147 



And we that have been victors, beat ourselves, 
When we insult upon our honor's subject. 
Bon. My valiant cousin, is it foul to say 

What liberty and honor bid us do. 

And what the gods allow us? 
Car. No, Bonduca, 

So what wo say exceed not what we do. 

Yc call the Romans fearful, fleeing Romans, 

And Roman girls, the lees of tainted pleasures : 

Does this become a doer ? are they such ? 
Bon. They are no more. 
Car. Where is your conquest then ? 

Why are your altars crown 'd with wreaths of flowers, 

The beast with gilt horns waiting for the fire ? 

The holy Druids composing songs 

Of everlasting life to Victory ? 

Why are these triumphs, lady ? for a may-game ? 

For hunting a poor herd of wretched Romans 1 

Is it no more 1 shut up your temples, Britons, 

And let the husbandman redeem his heifers ; 

Put out our holy fires ; no timbrel ring ; 

Let 's home and sleep ; for such great overthrows 

A candle burns too bright a sacrifice ; 

A glow-worm's tail too full of flame, O Nennius, 

Thou hast a noble uncle knew a Roman, 

And how to speak to him, how to give him weight 

In both his fortunes. 

Bon. By the gods, I think 
Ye doat upon these Romans, Caratach. 

Car. Witness these wounds, I do ; they were fairly given, 
I love an enemy, I was born a soldier ; 
A nd he that in the head of 's troop defies me, 
Bending my manly body with his sword, 
I make a mistress. Yellow- tressed Hymen 
N;'cr tied a longing virgin with more joy, 
Tlian I am married to that man that wounds me : 
And are not all these Romans. Ten struck battles 
I suck'd these honor'd scars from, and all Roman, 



148 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Ten years of bitter nights and heavy marches, 

When many a frozen storm sung through my cuirass, 

And made it doubtful whether that or I 

Were the more stubborn metal, have I wrought through, 

And all to try these Romans. Ten times a night 

I have swum the rivers, when the stars of Rome 

Shot at me as I floated, and the billows 

Tumbled their watry ruins on my shoulders, 

Charging my batter'd sides with troops of agues, 

And still to try these Romans ; whom I found 

(And if I lie, my wounds be henceforth backward, 

And be you witness, gods, and all my dangers) 

As ready, and as full of that I brought 

(Whicli was not fear nor flight) as valiant. 

As vigilant, as wise, to do and sufler, 

Ever advanc'd as forward as the Britons; 

Their sleeps as short, their hopes as high as ours. 

Aye, and as subtle. Lady. 'Tis dishonor, 

And follow'd will be impudence, Bonduca, 

And grow to no belief, to taint these Romans. 

Have I not seen the Britons — 

Bon. What? 

Car. Disheart'ned, 
Run, run, Bonduca, not the quick rack swifter ; 
The virgin from the hated ravisher 
Not half so fearful ; — not a flight drawn home, 
A round stone from a sling, a lover's wish, 
E'er made that haste that they have. By heavens, 
I have seen these Britons that you magnify, 
Run as they would have out-run time, and roaring, 
Basely for mercy, roaring ; the light shadows. 
That in a thought scur o'er the fields of corn. 
Halted on crutches to them. 

Bon. O ye powers, 
What scandals do I suffer ! 

Car. Yes, Bonduca, 
I have seen thee run too, and thee, Nennius ; 
Yea run apace, both ; then when Penyus, 



[UK ULOOIJV BROTHER. 149 

The Roman girl, cut through your armed carts, 

And drovp (hern headlong on ye down the hill : 

Then when he hunted yc like Britain-foxes, 

More by th(> scent than sight : then did I see 

These valiant and approvi'd men of Britain, 

Like Ixjding owls, creep into tods of ivy, 

And hoot their fears to one another nightly. 
Nen. And what did you then, Caratach ? 
Car. I fled too. 
But not so fast ; your jewel had been lost then. 
Young Ilengo there ; he trasht me, Nennius : 
For when your f«>ars out-run liim, then stept I, 
And in the head of all the Roman's fury 
Took him, and, with my tough belt to my back, 
1 buckled him ; Itehind him, my sure shield ; 
And then I follow'd. If I say I fought 
Five times in bringing oil' this bud of Britain, 
( lie not, Nennius. Neither had ye heard 
Me speak this, or ever seen the child more, 
But that the son of Virtu(>, Penyus, 
Seeing me steer through all these storms of danger, 
My helm still in my hand (my sword), my prow 
Turn'd to my foe (my face), he cried out nobly, 
" Go, Briton, bear thy lion's whelp ofl" safely ; 
♦' Thy manly sword has ransom'd thee : grow strong, 
" And let me meet thee once again in arms : 
" Then if thou stand'st, thou art mine." I took his offer, 
And here I am to honor him. 



THE BLOODY BROTHER ; OR, ROLLO : A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN 
FLETCHER. 

Rollo, Duke of JVormandy, a bloodif tyrant, puts to death hts tutor Bald- 
win, for too freely reproving him for his crimes ; but afterwards falls 
in love with Edith, daughter to the man he has slain. She makes a 
»hnu< of returning his love, and invites him to a banquet; her design 



150 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



being to train him there, that she may kill him : but overcome by hia 
flatteries and real or dissembled remorse, she faints in her resolution. 

RoLLO. Edith. 

Rol. What bright star, taking beauty's form upon her, 
In all tiie happy lustre of heaven's glory, 
lias ciropt down from the sky to comfort me ? 
Wonder of Nature, let it not profane thee 
My rude hand touch thy beauty, nor this kiss. 
The gentle sacrifice of love and service, 
l?e oller'd to the honor of thy sweetness. 

Edi. My gracious lord, no deity dwells here, 
Nor nothing of that virtue but obedience ; 
'J'he servant to your will affects no flattery. 

Jifl/. Can it be flattery to swear those eyes 
Are Love's eternal lamps he fires all hearts with : 
That tongue the smart siring to his bow ? those sighs 
The deadly shafts he sends into our souls ? 
Oh, look upon me with thy spring of beauty. 

Edi. Your grace is full of game. 

l\oI. By heaven, my l^'.dith, 
Thy mother fed on roses wlien she bred thee. 
The sweetness of the Arabian wind still blowing 
Upon the treasures of ptM'fumes and spices, 
In all their pride and pleasures, call thee mistress. 

Edi. Wil 't please you sit, sir? 

Rol. So you please sit by me, 
Fair gentle maid, there is no speaking to thee, 
The excellency that appears upon thee 
Ties up my tongue : piiiv sp(>ak to me. 

Edi. Of what, sir ? 

Kol. Of anything, anything is excellent. 
Will you take my directions ? speak of love then ; 
Speak of thy fair st>lf, Edith: and while thou speak'st, 
Let me thus languishing give up myself wench. 

Edi. H'as a strange cunning tongue. Why do you sigh, sir I 
How masterly he turns iiinis(>lf to catch me ! 

Rol. The way to paradise, my gentle maid, 



TllK III.DODY liltOTIIKR. 151 



Is hard and crooked : scarco ropcntuiic-e finding, 
With all her holy helps, tlio <loor to enter. 
Give nie thy hand, what dost thou feel ? 

Edi. Your tears, sir ; 
You weep extremely ; strengthen me now, justice. 
Why are these sorrows, sir ? 

Rol. Tliou'lt nev(!r love me. 
If I should tell thee ; yet there's no way left 
Ever to purchase this blest paradise. 
But swimming thither in these tears. 

Edi. I stagger. 

Rol, Are they not drops of blood ? 

Edi. No. 

Rol. They're for blood then, y 

Por guiltless blood ; and they must drop, njy Edith, 
They must thus drop, till I have drown'd my mischiefs. 

Edi. Tf this be true, I have no strength to touch him. 

Rol. I prithee look upon me, turn not from me ; 
Alas I do confess I'm made of mischiefs, 
Begot with all man's miseries upon me : 
But see my sorrows, maid, and do not thou. 
Whose only sweetest sacrifice is softness, 
Whose true condition, tenderness of nature 

Edi. My anger melts, oh, I shall lose my justice. 

Rol. Do not thou learn to kill witli cruelty. 
As I have done, to murder with thine eyes, 
(Those blessed eyes) as I have done with malice. 
When thou hast wounded me to death with scorn, 
(As I deserve it, lady) for my true love, 
When thou hast loaden me with earth for ever, 
Take heed my sorrows, and the stings I suffer. 
Take heed my nightly dreams of death and horror 
Pursue thee not : no time shall tell thy griefs then. 
Nor shall an hour of joy add to thy beauties. 
Look not upon me as I kill'd thy father, 
As I was smear'd in blood, do not thou hate me ; 
But thus in whiteness of my wash'd repentance, 



IVi KNCI.ISII |)i;.\M \ rU' l-OKTS. 

Ill my liiNii't's tt'urs and trulli of li)vt> lo I'lilitli, 
In my liiir lif'n lu-rculUM-. 

I'.ili. 1 1(> will l(H)l mt>. 

iu>!. Oil, with thine angri oyt's Ix-lmld and bless nio • 
On li< uv(>n we eall (or miM'cy and ohtain it, 
'i\» jiistiue (or our right on t>arth and liavt> it, 
("*[' th(M> 1 heji ior love, save me, and givt" it. 

F.tii. Now, heaven, thy helj), or I am gone forever! 
His tongue has turn'd nio into melting pity. 



•I'HIKKKY AN'D I'llKDlH^KI'Vr ; A TRACKPY. BY JOHIVf 
IM,iyi"('llKH. 

'Vhitrri), h'in^ of I'Vitiicr, biiiiti childlisn, iii foiitold In/ an .Ixtrolo^rr, 
Ihtit fif nhitll fiarv childttn if he Kacrifirt tin- fun t iroiiian that he 
shall mtvt at nun-rim' comina; out of the Ttntplc of Diana, tie waits 
litfotf the Tan pi t\ and the fust Woman ht- xirs pioi'rn to l>r his luon 
Jl'iff Ontilla. 

'ruii'.iiKv. MautI'I,, (/ ISobliinan, 

Mali. \ ouv gnice is early stirring. 

Thtcr. I low can he slecf) 
W ho.se happiness !.■! laid up m an hour 
I If knows eomes stealing towards hin> ? 0\\ Martel ! 
Is'l po.ssihle the longing l)ride. whose wishes 
Out- rim iier tears, can on that day she is married 
('inisume in slnmhers ; or his arms rust in east> 
'riiat hears tht> eharge, and sees the honor'd pnrehase 
l\<-ady to guild his valor ! Mhw is nu>rt>, 
\ powt>r ahove (hese passions: this day I'ranee, 
l''r!nu't\ that in want ol" i.ssn(> withers with iis, 
\nd lilvi> an aged river, runs his lanul 
Into t'orgottt-n ways, again I ran.som, 
\nd his tiiir eourse turn right. 

I\l(trt. linppv wiMunn. that ilit>s to do these thing.«*. 



I'liiiiKiiv AM) riii;()i)(»iu;r. jsa 



I'liiir. 'I'lir ( lulls liiivc lii'urd inr iniu, mid llioso tlmt seorn'd me, 
Motlicrs ()i° iiiiiiiy cliililn-ii tiiid l)lr.st. HiiIiith 
'riml .s((! llifir issiKi lilui tlm .stars mimiinlM'r'd, 
Their coiiilcirl. \uovo than tlifiii, slwill in my pmiNO. 
Now tcaidi tlioir iiiliuilH sniiffN ; iiiid tell llieir uj^oh 
l''riiiii siwdi a sun n{' miiic, or siicli a (|m'rii, 
Tlial iduiste Orddla ltriii<fs me. 

Mdii. Tim (lay wears, 
And those that have luieii oileriii^ eurly prayers, 
Are now relirinj/; homowunl. 

T/iicr. Stand and mark tlion. 

M<irt. Is it the (irst must suller? 

T/iirr. 'V\w (irst woman. 

Mart. What hand shall do it, sir ! 

Tliicr. This hand, Martel : 
h'lir who less daro presunai to <^ive the ifodw 
An incense of this oiliirinjf I 

Marl. Would I W(!n^ she, 
l''or such u way to di(i, and such a hli^ssinir, 
( 'an never crown my parlin;^'. 
I lere comes a woman. 

()ni)Ki,i-A coiiirs Old. of Ihr, 'rcinp/r. veiled, 

T/iirr. Stand and hehold her ihen. 

Marl. I thinli a liiii' one. 

'I'/iifr. Move not w liilsl I pr<'par<i her : may her poace, 
Jiil\(^ his wlio.se irmocence the ^ods are phias'd wilii, 
And ollerinj^ at their altars, jfives his soul 
I''ar pnrcr than thosi- (ires, pull la^aven upon her; 
\n\i holy powers, no human spot dwell in her ; 
No lovo ol' anythiii"^, hut you and ^foodness. 
Tie her to earth ; (I'ar he a slranjfer to her, 
And all weak hlood's alU'ctions, hut thy hope, 
lict her l»e(pieath to women : hear me, heaven, 
(live Ix^r a spirit mascidine and noiilc. 
Kit for yonrHolves to usk, and mr? to oiler. 
O lot her meet my hlow, doat on Uvv death ; 
And as a wanton vine hows to the pruner, 



154 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



That by his cutting off more may increase, 
So let her fall to raise me fruit. Hail woman ! 
The happiest and the best (if the dull will 
Do not abuse thy fortune) France e'er found yet. 

Ordel. She's more than dull, sir, less and worse than woman, 
That may inherit such an infinite 
As you propound, a greatness so near goodness, 
And brings a will to rob her. 

Thier. Tell me this then, 
Was there e'er woman yet, or may be found, 
That for fair fame, unspotted memory, 
For virtue's sake, and only for its self sake, 
Has, or dare make a story ? 

Ordel. Many dead, sir, living I think as many. 

Thier. Say the kingdom 
May from a woman's will receive a blessing, 
The king and kingdom, not a private safety ; 
A general blessing, lady. 

Ordel. A general curse light on her heart denies it. 

Thier. Full of honor ; 
And such examples as the former ages 
Were but dim shadows of and empty figures, 

Ordel. You strangely stir me, sir, and were my weakness 
In any other flesh but modest woman's, 
You should not ask more questions ; may I do it ? 

Thier. You may, and which is more, you must. 

Ordel. I joy in't, 
Above a moderate gladness ; sir, you promise 
It shall be honest. 

Thier. As ever time discover'd. 

Ordel. Let it be what it may then, what it dare, 
I have a mind will hazard it. 

Thier. But hark ye, 
What may that woman merit, makes this blessing ? 

Ordel. Only her duty, sir. 

Thier. 'Tis terrible. 

Ordel. 'Tis so much the more noble. 

Thier. 'Tis full of fearful shadows. 



THIERRY AND THEODORET. 155 

Ordel. So is sleep, sir, 
Or anything that's merely ours and mortal ; 
We were begotten gods else : but those fears, 
Feeling but once the fires of nobler thoughts, 
Fly, like the shapes of clouds wc form, to nothing. 

Thier. Suppose it death. 

Ordel. I do. 

Thier. And endless parting 
With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness. 
With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason : 
For in tlie silent grave, no conversation,* 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel, nothing's heard, 
Nor nothing is, but all oblivion, 

Dust and an endless darkness : and dare you, woman. 
Desire this place ? 

Ordel. 'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest ; 
Children begin it to us, strong men seek it, 
And kings from height of all their painted glories 
Fall like spent exhalations to this centre : 
And those are fools that fear it, or imagine, 
A few unhandsome pleasures, or life's profits, 
Can recompense this place ; and mad that stay it, 
Till age blow out their lights, or rotten humors 
Bring them dispersed to the earth, 

Thier. Then you can suffer ? 

Ordel. As willingly as say it. 

Thier. Martel, a wonder ! 
Here is a woman that dares die. Yet tell me, 
Are you a wife ? 

Ordel. 1 am, sir ? 

Thier. And have children ? She sighs and weeps. 

Ordel. O none, sir. 

Thier. Dare you venture, 
For a poor barren praise you ne'er shall hear, 

* There is no work, no device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, 
whither thou goest. Ecclesiasles. 



151) ENGLISH J)RAMATIC POETS. 

To part with these sweet hopes ? 

Ordel. With all but heaven, 
And yet die full of children ; ho that reads me 
When I am ashes, is my son in wishes : 
And those chaste dames tiiat keep my memory, 
Swinging my yearly requiems, are my daughters. 

Thier. Then there is nothing wanting but my knowledge, 
And wliat I must do, lady. 

Ordel. You are the king, sir, 
And what you do I'll sulFer, and that blessing 
Tiiat you desire, tlic gods siiower on the kingdom. 

TJiicr. Thus much before I strike then, for I must kill you, 
Tile gods have will'd it so, tliey've made the blessing 
Must make France young again, and me a man. 
Keep up your strength still nobly. 

Ordel. Fear me not. 

Thier. And meet death like a measure, 

Ordel. I am stedfast. 

Thier. Thou shalt be sainted, woman, and thy tomb 
Cut out in crystal pure and good as thou art ; 
And on it shall bo graven every age 
Succeeding peers of France that rise by thy fall, 
Till thou Host there like old and fruitful Nature, 
j^arest thou behold thy hapj)iness ? 

Ordel. I dare, sir. 

[^Pitlls off her veil; he lets fall his sword. 

Thier. Ha! 

Mar. O, sir, you must not do it. 

T'hier. No, I dare not. 
Tliere is an angel keeps that paradise, 
A liory angt4 friend : O virtue, virtue. 
Ever and endless virtue. 

Ordel. Strike, sir, strike. 
And if in my poor death fair France may merit, 
(live me a thousand blows, be killing me 
A thousand days. 

Thier. First let the earth be barren, 
And man no more rcmember'd. Rise, Ordella, 



THIERRY AND TIIKODORET. 157 



The nearest to thy Maker, and the purest 

That ever dull flesh show'd us, — Oh my heart-strings.* 

Marti 1 7-elalcs to Thierry the. manner of Ordella's death. 
Mar. The gricv'd Ordclla (for all other titles 
But take away from that) having from me, 
Prompted by your last parting groan, enquir'd 
Wiiat drew it from you, and the cause soon Icarn'd : 
For she whom barbarism could deny nothing, 
With such prevailing earnestness desir'd it, 
'Twas not in me, though it had been my death, 
To hide it from her ; she, I say, in whom. 
All \\a's, that Athens, Rome, or warlike Sparta, 
Have rc^gister'd for good in their best women. 
But nothing of their ill ; knowing herself 
Mark'd out (I know not by what power, but sure 
A cruel one), to die, to give you children ; 
[laving first with a settled countenance . 

Look'd up to heaven, and then upon herself 
(It being the next best object), and then smil'd, 
As if her joy in death to do you service. 
Would break forth, in despite of the much sorrow 

* I liave always considered this to be the finest scene in Fletcher, and 
Ordella the most perfect idea of the female heroic character, next to Ca- 
lantlia in the Broken Heart of Ford, that has been embodied in fiction. She 
is a piece of sainted nature. Yet noble as the whole scene is, it must be 
confessed that the manner of it, compared with Shakspeare's finest scenes, 
is slow and languid. Its motion is circular, not progressive. Each line 
revolves on itself in a sort of separate orbit. They do not join into one 
another like a running hand. Every step that wo go we are stopped to 
admire some single object, like walking in beautiful scenery with a guide. 
This slowness I sliall elsewhere have occasion to remark as characteristic of 
Fletcher. Another striking difference perceivable between Fletcher and 
Shakspeare, is the fondness of the former for unnatural and violent situa- 
tions, like that in the scene before us. He seems to have thought that 
nothing great could be produced in an ordinary way. The chief incidents 
in the Wife for a Month, in Cupid's Revenge, in the Double Marriage, and 
in many more of his Tragedies, show this. Shakspeare had notliing of this 
contortion in his mind, none of that craving after romantic incidents, and 
fliichts of strained and improbable virtue, which I think always betrays an 
iniperfect moral sensibility. 



158 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Sho show'd she luid to kuvo you ; aiul then taking 

Mo by the hand, tliis hand which I must ever 

JiOV(> bfttrr tliuii 1 have done, shico she touch'd it, 

" CJo," said she, " to my h)rd (and to go to him 

" Is such a happiness I must not hope for), 

" And tell him that he too much priz'd a trifle 

" IMiidc only worthy in his love, and her 

" 'IMiaukl'ul iunrc|)trtiiee, for her sake to rob 

" Tlic orpliiui kiiij^dom of such guardians, as 

" Must ol" necessity descend from him ; 

" And therefore in some part of rccompence 

" Of his nmch love, and to show to the world 

"That 'twas not her fault only, but hcv fate, 

** That did deny to let her b(^ tlu; mother 

" Of such most certain blessings : yet for proof, 

" She did not envy her, that happy her, 

" That is appointed to them ; her quick end 

" Sli()uld Muiki^ way (or her :" which no sooner spoke, 

Hut ill a moment this too ready engine 

Made sucli a battery in the choicest castle 

Tiiat ever Nature made to defend life, 

'J'hat straijiht it shook and sunk. 



WIT VVII'HOIJT MONEY: A COMEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. 

T/ic humor of a Uallunt ii</io will not bf jursiiailtd to keep his Lands, but 
chooses to lii<r In/ his Wits rnthtr. 

Valentine's Uncle. Mekcuant, who has his Mortgage. 

Mcr. When saw you Valentine ? 

Unc. Not since the horse race. 
TTe'ti taken up with those that woo the widow. 

Mrr. I low can he live by snatches from such people ? 
I Ic Itorc a worthy mind. 

Unc. Alas, he's sunk. 
His means are gone, he wants ; and, whiuh i worse. 
Takes u delight in doing so. 



WIT WITHOUT MOMEY. 159 



Mer. That's strange. 

Unc. Runs lunatic if you but talk of states ; 
Ho can't be brought (now he has spent his own) 
To think tiierc is inheritance, or means, 
* But all a coniuion riches ; all men bound 
To be his baililFs. 

Mer. This is something dangerous, 

Unc. No gentleman, that has estate, to use it 
In keeping house or followers: for those ways 
He cries against for eating sins, dull surfeits. 
Cramming of serving-men, mustering of beggars, 
Maintaining hospitals for kites and curs, 
(Jrounding their fat faiths upon old country proverbs, 
" God bless the founders :" these he would have ventur'd 
Into more manly uses, wit and carriage ; 
And never thinks of state or means, the ground-works : 
Holding it monstrous, men should feed their bodies. 
And starve their understandings. 

Vj\LENTiNE^'o/rt.9 them. 

Val. Now to your business, uncle. 

Unc. To your state then. 

Val. 'Tis gone, and I am glad on 't, name 't no more, 
'Tis that I pray against, and heaven has heard me ; 
I tell you, sir, I am more fearful of it 
(I mean, of thinking of more lands or livings), 
Than sickly men an; o' travelling 0' Sundays, 
For being quell'd with carriers; out upon 't ; 
Caveat emptor ; let the fool out-sweat it, 
That thinks hr; has got a catch on 't. 

Unc. This is madness. 
To be a wilful beggar. 

Val. I am mad then. 
And so I mean to be ; will that content you ? 
How bravely now I live ! how jocund ! 
How near the first inheritance ! without fears ' 
How free from title troubles ! 

Unc. And from means too ' 



160 EivGLlSlI DRAMATIC POETS. 
Val. Means 



Why, all good niea"s my means ; my wit 's my plough j 

The town 's my stock, tavern 's my standing-house 

(And all the world know, there 's no want) : all gentlemen 

That love society, love me ; all purses 

That wit and pleasure opens, are my tenants ; 

Every man's clothes fit me ; the next fair lodging 

Is but my next remove ; and when I please 

To be more eminent, and take the air, 

A piece is levied, and a coach prepar'd, 

And I go I care not whither ; what need state liere ? 

Unc. But say these means were honest, will they last, sir ? 

Val. Far longer than your jerkin, and wear fairer. 
Your mind 's enclos'd, nothing lies open nobly ; 
Your very thoughts are hindw, that work on nothing 
But daily sweat and trouble : were my way 
So full of dirt as tliis ('tis true) I 'd shift it. 
Are my acquaintance Graziers ? Bui, sir, know ; 
No inaa that I 'm allied to in my living, 
But makes it equal whether his own use 
Or my necessity pull first ; nor is this forc'd, 
But the meer quality and poisure of goodness. 
And do you think I venture nothing equal ? 

Unc. You pose me, cousin. 

Val. What's my knowledge, uncle ? 
Is 't not worth money ? what's my understanding ? 
Travel ? reading ? wit ? all these digested 1 my daily 
Making men, some to speak, that too much phlegm 
Had froz'n up ; some, that spoke too much, to hold 
Their peace, and put their tongues to pensions ; some 
To wear their cloaths, and some to keep 'em : these 
Are nothing, uncle ? besides these ways, to teach 
The way of nature, a manly love, community 
To all that are deservers, not examining 
How much or what 's done for them ; it i.s wicked. 
Are not these ways as honest, as persecuting 
The starv'd inheritance with musty corn, 
Tho very rats were fain lo run riwav from ? 



THE TWO JNOBLK KINSMEN 161 

Or selling rotten wood by the pound, like spices, 

Which gentlemen do after burn by the ounces ? 

Do not 1 know your way of feeding beasts 

With grains, and windy stuff, to blow up butchers ? 

Your racking pastures, that have eaten up 

As many singing shepherds, and their issues, 

As Andaluzia breeds? Tliese are authentic. 

I tell you, sir, I would not change way witli you ; 

Unless it were to sell your state that hour, 

And (if 'twere possible) to spend it then too ; 

For all your beans in Rumnillo : now you know me. 

[The wit of Fletcher is excellent, like his serious scenes : but there is 
soiiK'tliing strained and far-fetched in both. He is too mistrustfnl of Na- 
ture ; he always goes a little on one side of her. Shakspeare chose her 
without a reserve : and had riches, power, understanding, and long life, 
with her, for a dowry.] 



THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEX A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN 
FLETCHER.* 

Tlirte Queens, whose Lords were slain and their bodies dc7iied burial by 
Creon, the cruel King of TJiebes, seik redress from Theseus, Duke of 
jlthcns, qn the day of his marriage with Hipjwlifa, Queen of the Ama- 
zons. The first Queen falls down at the feet of Theseus ; the second 
<U the feet of HippoUta, his bride ; and the third imjdorcs the mediation 
of Emilia, his Sister. 

\st Qn. to Thes. For pity's sake, and true gentility. 
Hear and respect me. 

'Zd Qu. to Hip. For your mother's sake, 
And as you wish your womb may thrive with fair ones, 
Hear and respect me. 

.3rd Qu. to Emil. Now for tiie love of him whom Jove hath 
mark'd 
The honor of your bed, and for the sake 
Of clear virginity, be advocate 

* Fletcher is said lo have been assisted in this Play by Shakspeare 
PART n. 12 



162 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS 



For us and our distresses : this good deed 
Shall raze you out of the book of trespasses 
All you are set down there. 

Thes. Sad lady, rise. 

Hip. Stand up. 

Emil. No knees to me. 
What woman I may stead, that is distrest. 
Does bind me to her. 

Thes. What's your request ? Deliver you for alf.. 

\st Qu. We are three queens, whose sovereigns fell before 
The wrath of cruel Creon ; who endure 
The beaks of ravens, talons of the kites, 
And peck of crows, in the foul field of Thebes. 
Ho will not sutler us to burn their bones. 
To urn their ashes, nor to take th' offence 
Of mortal loathsomeness from the blest eye 
Of holy Phoebus, but infects the winds 
With stench of our slain lords. Oh pity, duke, 
Thou purger of the earth, draw thy fear'd sword 
That does good turns to th' world ; give us the bones 
Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them ; 
And, of thy boundless goodness, take some note 
That for our crowned heads we have no roof, 
Save this which is the lion's and the bear's, 
And vault to everything. 

Thes. Pray you kneel not, 
I was transported with your speech, and suffer'd 
Your knees to wrong themselves: I have heard the fortunes 
Of your dead lords, which gives me such lamenting. 
As wakes my vengeance and revenge for them. 
King Capaneus was your lord : the day 
That he should marry you, at such a season 
As now it is with me, I met your groom ; 
l>y Mars's altar, you were that time fair. 
Not Juno's mantle fairer than your tresses, 
?Sor ill more bounty spread her. Your wheaten wreath 
Was not then thrash'd nor blasted : Fortune at you 
Dimpled her cheek with smiles : Hercules, our kinsman, 



THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 163 



(Then weaker than your eyes) laid by his club ; 
He tumbled down upon his Nemean hide, 
And swore his sinews thaw'd. Oh, grief, and time, 
Fearful consumers, you will all devour. 

1st Qu. Oil I hope some god. 
Some god hath put his mercy in your manhood. 
Whereto he '11 infuse power, and press you forth 
Our undertaker. 

Thes. Oh, no knees, none, widow ; 
Unto the helmeted Bellona use them. 
And pray for me your soldier. 
Troubled I am. 

2d Qu. Honor'd Hippolita, 
Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain 
The scythe-tusk'd boar ; that with thy arm, as strong 
As it is white, wast near to make the male 
To thy sex captive, but that this thy lord, 
Born to uphold creation in that honor 
First Nature styled it in, shrunk thee into 
The bound thou wast o'erflowing, at once subduing 
Thy force and thy affection : Soldieress, 
That equally canst poise sternness with pity, 
Who now I know hast much more power on him 
Than ever he had on thee, who ow'st his strength 
And his love too ; who is a servant for 
The tenor of the speech : Dear glass of ladies, 
Bid him that we, whom flaming war doth scorch. 
Under the shadow of his sword may cool us : 
Require him he advance it o'er our heads ; 
Speak 't in a woman's key, like such a woman 
As any of us three : weep ere you fail ; lend us a knee, 
But touch the ground for us no longer time 
Than a dove's motion when the head 's pluckt off: 
Tell him if he i' th' blood-siz'd field lay swoln, 
Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon, 
What you would do. 

Hip. Poor lady, say no more ; 
I had as lieve trace this good action with you, 



164 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

As that whereto I 'm going, and never yet 
Went I so willing 'way. My lord is taken 
Heart-deep with your distress ; let him consider ; 
I '11 speak anon. 

Srd Qu. to Emil. O my petition Was 
Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied 
Melts into drops, so sorrow wanting form 
Is prest with deeper matter. 

Emil. Pray stand up, 
Your grief is written in your cheek. 

3rd Qu. Oh wo, 
You cannot read it there ; there through my tears, 
Like wrinkled pebbles in u glassy stream, 
You may behold them. Lady, lady, alack ! 
He that will all the treasures know o' th' earth. 
Must know the centre too ; he that will fish 
For my least minnow, let him lead his line 
To catch one at my heart. O pardon me ; 
Extremity that sharpens sundry \vits 
Makes me a fool. 

Emil. Pray you say nothing, pray you ; 
Who cannot feel, nor see the rain, being in 't, 
Knows neither wet, nor dry : if that you were 
The ground-piece of some painter, 1 would buy you 
T' instruct me 'gainst a capital grief indeed. 
Such heart-pierc'd demonstration ; but alas 
Being a natural sister of our sex. 
Your sorrow beats so ardently upon me, 
Tliat it shall make a counter-reflect 'gainst 
My brother's heart, and warm it to some pity. 
Though it were made of stone : pray have good comfort. 

Thes. Forward to th' temple, leave not out a jot 
O' th' sacred ceremony. 

1st. Qu, Oh this celebration 
Will longer last, and be more costly than 
Your suppliants' war. Remember that your fame 
Knolls in the ear o' th' world : what you do quickly, 
Is not done rashly ; your first thought is more 



THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 165 



Than others' labor'd meditance ; your premeditating 
More than their actions ; but oh Jove, your actions, 
Soon as they move, as Asprays do the fish, 
Subdue before they touch. Think, dear duke, think, 
What beds our slain kings have. 

2nd. Qu. What griefs our beds, 
That our dear lords have none. 

3rd. Qu. None fit for the dead ; 
Those that with cords, knives, drams, precipitance. 
Weary of this world's light, have to themselves 
Been death's most horrid agents, human grace 
Affords them dust and shadow. 

1*^ Qu. But our lords 
Lie blistering 'fore the visitating sun. 
And were good kings when living. 

Thes. It is true, and I will give you comfort. 
To give your dead lords graves : 
The which to do must make some work with Creon. 

Ist. Qu. And that work presents itself to th' doing : 
Now 'tw'll take form, the heats are gone to-morrow, 
Then bootless toil must recorapence itself 
With its own sweat ; now he 's secure, 
Not dreams we stand before your puissance, 
Rincing our holy begging in our eyes 
To make petition clear. 

2nd. Qu. Now you may take him 
Drunk with his victory. 

3rd. Qu. And his army full. 
Of bread and sloth. 

Thes. Artesis, that best knowest 
How to draw out, fit to this enterprize, 
The prim'st for this proceeding, and the number 
To carry such a business forth ; and levy 
Our worthiest instruments, whilst we dispatch 
This grand act of our life, this daring deed 
Of fate in wedlock. 

Isi. Qu. Dowagers, take hands ; 
Let us be widows to our woes, delay 



ItU- ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Commends us to a famishing hope. 

All. Farewell. 

2nd. Qu. We come unseasonably. But when could grief 
Cull forth, as unpang'd judgment can, fit'st time 
For best solicitation ? ' 

T/ies. Why good ladies, 
This is a service, whereto I am going, 
Greater than any was ; it more imports me 
Than all the actions that I have foregone, 
Or futurely can cope. 

l.v<. Qu. The more proclaiming 
Our suit shall be neglected, when her arms, 
Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall 
By warranting moon-light corslet thee. Oh when 
Her twining cherries shall their sweetness fall 
Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think 
Of rotten kings, or blubber'd queens ? what care 
For what thou feel'st not ? what thou feel'st being able 
To make Mars spurn his drum. Oh if thou couch 
But one night with her, every hour in 't will 
Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and 
Thou shalt remember nothing more, than what 
That banquet bids thee to. 

Hii). Though much unliking 
You should be so transported, as much sorry 
I siiould be such a suitor, yet I think 
Did I not by th' abstaining of my joy 
Which breeds a deeper longing, euro their surfei 
That craves a present med'cine, I should pluck 
All ladies' scandal on nio. Therefore, sir, 
As I shall here make trial of my prayers, 
Either presuming them to have some force. 
Or sentencing for aye their vigor dumb. 
Prorogue this business we are going about, and hang 
Your shield afore your heart, about that neck 
Which is my fee, and which I freely lend 
To do those poor queens service. 

All Qu's. to Emil. Oh help now, 



THE TWO N0J3LE KINSMEN. 167 

Unr cause cries for your knee. 

Em'd. If you grant not 
My sister her petition in tliat force, 
With tiiat celerity and nature which 
She nial<cs it in, from henceforth I '11 not dare 
To ask you anything, nor be so hardy 
Ever to take a husband. 

Thes. Pray stand up. 
I am entreating of myself to do 
That which you kneel to have me ; Perithous, 
Lead on the bride ; get you and pray the gods 
For success and return ; omit not anything 
In the pretended celebration ; queens, 
Follow your soldier (as before) ; hence you, 
And at the banks of Anly meet us with 
The forces you can raise, where we shall find 
The moiety of a number, for a business 
More bigger look 't. Since that our theme is haste, 
I stamp this kiss upon thy currant lip ; 
Sweet, keep it as my token. Set you forward, 
For I will see you gone. 

Hippolita and Emilia discoursing of the friendship between Perithous 
and Theseus, Emilia relates a parallel instance of the love between 
herself aiid Flavia being girls. 

Emil. I was acquainted 
Once with a time, when I enjoy'd a play-fellow ; 
You were at wars, when she the grave enrich'd, 
Who made too proud the bod, took leave o' th' moon 
(Wliich then look'd pale at parting) when our count 
Was each eleven. 

Hip. 'Twas Flavia 

Emil. Yes. 
You talk of Perithous and Theseus' love ; 
Theirs has more ground, is more maturely season'd, 
More buckled with strong judgment, and their needs 
The one of th' other may be said to water 
Their intertangled roots of love ; but I 



168 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

And she (I sigh and spoke of) were things innocent, 

Loved for we did, and like the elements. 

That know not what, nor why, yet do effect 

Rare issues by their operance, our souls 

Did so to one another ; what she liked, 

Was then of me approved ; what not condemned, 

No more arraignment ; the flower that I would pluck. 

And put between my breasts (Oh then but beginning 

To swell about the bosom) she would long 

Till she had such another, and commit it 

To the like innocent cradle, where phoenix-like 

They died in perfume : on my head no toy 

But was her pattern ; her affections pretty, 

Though happily hers careless were, I followed 

For my most serious decking ; had mine ear 

Stolen some new air, or at adventure humm'd on 

From musical coinage, why it was a note 

Whereon her spirits would sojourn (^rather dwell on) 

And sing it in her slumbers ; this rehearsal 

(Which every innocent wots well) comes in 

Like old Importment's bastard, has this end : 

That the true love 'tween maid and maid may be 

More than in sex dividual. 

Pal anion a«d Arcite repining at their hard condition, in being made cap- 
tives for life in Athens, derive consolation from the enjoyment of each 
other'' s company in priso7i. 

Pal. How do you, noble cousin ? 

Arc. How do you, sir ? 

Pal. Why strong enough to laugh at misery, 
And bear the chance of war yet ; we are prisoners 
I fear for ever, cousin. ^ 

Arc. I believe it, 
And to that destiny have patiently 
Laid up my hour to come. 

Pol. Oh cousin Arcite, 
Where is Thebes now ? where is our noble country ? 
Where ai'e our friends and kindreds ? never more 
Must we behold those comforts, never see 



THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 169 



The hardy youths strive for the games of honor, 
Hung with the painted favors of their ladies 
Like tall ships under sail ; then start amongst them, 
And as an east wind leave them all behind us 
Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and A.rcite, 
Even in the wagging of a wanton leg, 
Out-stript the people's praises, won the garlands 
Ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh never 
Shall we two exercise, like twins of honor. 
Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses 
Like proud seas under us, our good swords now 
(Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore) 
Ravish'd our sides, like age, must run to rust, 
And deck the temples of those gods that hate us ; 
These hands shall never draw them out like lightning 
To blast whole armies more. 

Arc. No, Palamon, 
Those hopes are prisoners with us ; here we are, 
And here the graces of our youths must wither 
Like a too timely spring ; here age must find us, 
And (which is heaviest) Palamon, unmarried ; 
The sweet embraces of a loving wife 
Loaden with kisses, arm'd with thousand cupids, 
Shall never clasp our necks, no issue know us, 
No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see, 
To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them 
Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say, 
" Remember what your fathers were, and conquer." 
The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments, 
And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune, 
Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done 
To youth and nature. This is all our world: 
We shall know nothing here, but one another ; 
Hear nothing, but the clock that tells our woes. 
The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it : 
Summer shall come, and with her all delights, 
But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still. 

Pal 'Tis too true, Arcite, To our Theban hounds, 



170 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



That shook the aged forest with their echoes, 
No more now must we halloo, no more shake 
Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine 
Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, 
Struck with our well-steel'd darts. All valiant uses 
(The food and nourishment of noble minds) 
In us two here shall perish : we shall die 
(Which is the curse of honor) lastly 
Children of grief and ignorance. 

Arc. Yet cousin. 
Even from the bottom of these miseries, 
From all that fortune can inflict upon us, 
I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings, 
If the gods please to hold here ; a brave patience. 
And the enjoying of our griefs together. 
Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish 
If I think this our prison. 

Fal. Certainly 
'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes 
Were twin'd together ; 'tis most true, two souls 
Put in two noble bodies, let them suffer 
The gall of hazard, so they grow together. 
Will never sink ; they must not ; say they could, 
A willing man dies sleeping, and all 's done. 

Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place 
That all men hate so much ? 

Pal. How, gentle cousin ? 

Arc. Let 's think this prison holy sanctuary, 
To keep us from corruption of worse men ; 
We are young, and yet desire the ways of honor, 
That liberty and common conversation. 
The poison of pure spirits, might (like women) 
Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing 
Can be, but our imaginations 

May make it ours ? And here being thus together, 
We are an endless mine to one another ; 
We are one another's wife, ever begetting 
New births of love ; we are father, friends, acquaintance 



THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 171 



We are, in one another, families ; 

I am your heir, and you are mine. This place 

Is our inheritance ; no hard oppressor 

Dare take this from us ; here with a little patience 

We shall live long, and loving ; no surfeits seek us ; 

The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas 

Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty, 

A wife might part us lawfully, or business ; 

Quarrels consume us ; envy of ill men 

Crave our acquaintance ; I might sicken, cousin, 

Where you should never know it, and so perish 

Without your noble hand to close mine eyes, 

Or prayers to the gods : a thousand chances. 

Were we from hence, would sever us. 

Pal. You have made me 
(I thank you, Cousin Arcite) almost wanton 
With my captivity : what a misery 
It is to live abroad, and everywhere ! 
'Tis like a beast methinks ! I find the court here, 
I 'in sure a more content ; and all those pleasures, 
That woo the wills of men to vanity, 
I see through now ; and am sufficient 
To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow. 
That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him. 
What, had we been old fn the Court of Creon, 
Wiiere sin is justice, lust and ignorance 
The virtues of the great ones ? Cousin Arcite, 
Had not the loving gods found this place for us. 
We had died, as they do, ill old men, unwept, 
And had their epitaphs, the people's curses. 

[This scene bears indubitable marks of Fletcher : the two which precede 
it give strong countenance to the tradition that Shakspeare had a hand in 
this play. The same judgment may be formed of the death of Arcite, and 
some other passages, not here given. They have a luxuriance in them 
which strongly resembles Shakspeare's manner in those parts of his plays 
where, tlie progress of the interest being subordinate, the poet was at lei- 
sure for description. I might fetch instances from Troilus and Timon. 
That Fletcher should have copied Shakspeare's manner through so many 
entire s.-ei ea (which is the theory of Mr. Steevens) is not very probable. 



172 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

that he could have done it with such facility is to me not certain. His ideas 
move slow ; his versification, though sweet, is tedious, it stops every 
moment; he lays line upon line, making up one after the other, adding 
image to ' image so deliberately that we see where they join : Shakspeare 
mingles everything, he runs line into line, embarrasses sentences and meta- 
phors : before one idea has burst its shell, another is hatched and clamorous 
for disclosure. If Fletcher wrote some scenes in imitation, why did he 
stop ? or shall we say that Shakspeare wrote the other scenes in imitation 
of Fletcher ? that he gave Shakspeare a curb and a bridle, and that Shak- 
speare gave him a pair of spurs : as Blackmore and Lucan are brought in 
exchanging gifts in the Battle of the Books ?] 



THE CITY MADAM: A COMEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER. 

Luke, from a state of indigence and dependence, is suddenly raised into 
immense affluence by a deed of gift of the estates of his brother. Sir John 
Frugal, a mercha7it, retired from the world. He enters, from taking 
a survey of his new riches. 

Lulce. 'Twas no fantastic object but a truth, 
A real truth, no dream. I did not slumber ; 
And could wake ever with a brooding eye 
To gaze upon 't ! it did endure the touch, 
I saw, and felt it. Yet what I beheld 
And handled oft, did so transcend belief 
(My wonder and astonishment pass'd o'er) 
I faintly could give credit to my senses. 
Tliou dumb magician, [To the Key, 

That without a charm 
Didst make my entrance easy to possess 
What wise men wish and toil for. Hermes' Moly ; 
Sybilla's golden bough ; the great elixir 
Imagin'd only by the alchymist ; 
Compar'd with thee, are shadows, thou the substance 
And guardian of felicity. No marvel, 
My brother made thy place of rest his bosom, 
Thou being the keeper of his heart, a mistress 
To be hugg'd ever. In by-corners of 
This sacred room, silver, in bags hrap'd no 



CITY MADAM. 173 



Like billets saw'd and ready for the fire, 
Unworthy to hold fellowship with bright gold, 
That flow'd about the room, conceal'd itself. 
There needs no artificial light, the splendor 
Makes a perpetual day there, night and darkness 
By that still-burning lamp for ever banish'd. 
But when, guided by that, my eyes had made 
Discovery of the caskets, and they open'd, 
Each sparkling diamond from itself shot forth 
A pyramid of flames, and in the roof 
Fix'd it a glorious star, and made the place 
Heavien's abstract, or epitome ; Rubies, sapphires, 
And robes of orient pearl, these seen, I could not 
But look on gold with contempt. And yet I found, 
What weak credulity could have no faith in, 
A treasure far exceeding these. Hei'e lay 
A manor bound fast in a skin of parchment ; 
The wax continuing hard, the acres melting. 
Here a sure deed of gift for a market town, 
If not redo^em'd this day ; which is not in 
The unthrift's power. There being scarce one shire 
In Wales or England, where my monies are not 
Lent out at usury, the certain hook 
To draw in more. 

The extravagance of the City Madams aping court fashions repre- 
hended. 
Luke, having come into the possession of his brother Sir John FrugaFs 

estates. Lady, wife to Sir John Frugal, and two daughters, in homely 

attire. 

Luke, Save you, sister ; 
I now dare style you so. You were before 
Too glorious to be look'd on : now you appear 
Like a city matron, and my pretty nieces 
Such things 

As they were born and bred there. Wliy should you ape 
The fashions of court ladies, whose high titles 
And pedigrees of long descent give warrant 



174 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



For their superfluous bravery ? 'twas monstrous. 
Till now you ne'er look'd lovely. 

Lady. Is this spoken 
In scorn ? 

Luke. Fie, no ; with judgment, I make good 
My j)roniise, and now show you like yourselves, 
In your own natural shapes. 

Lady. We acknowledge 
We have deserv'd ill from you,* yet despair not, 
Though we 're at your disposure, you '11 maintain us 
Like your brother's wife and daughters. 

Luke. 'Tis my purpose. 

Lady. And not make us ridiculous. 

Luke. Admir'd rather 
As fair examples for our proud city dames 
And their proud brood to imitate. Hear 
Gently, and in gentle phrase I '11 reprehend 
Your late disguis'd deformity. 
Your father was 

An honest country farmer, Goodman Humble, 
By his neighbors ne'er call'd master. Did your pride 
Descend from him ? but let that pass. Your fortune, 
Or rather your husband's industry, advanc'd you 
To the rank of merchant's wife. He made a knight, 
And your sweet mistress-ship ladyfy'd, you wore 
Satin on solemn days, a chain of gold, 
A velvet hood, rich borders, and sometimes 
A dainty miniver cap, a silver pin 
Headed with a pearl worth three-pence ; and thus far 
You were privileg'd, and no man envied it : 
It being for the city's honor that 
There should be distinction between 

The wife of a patrician and a plebeian. 

But when the height 

And dignity of London's blessings grew 



* In his dependent* state they had treated him very cruelly. They are 
now dependent on him 



CITY MADAM. 175 



Contemptible, and the name lady mayoress 

Became a by-word, and you scorn'd the means 

By which you were rais'd (my brother's fond indulgence 

Giving the reins to 't) and no object pleas'd you 

But the glitt'ring pomp and bravery of tiie court ; 

What a strange, nay monstrous metamorphosis follow'd ! 

No English workmen then could please your fancy ; 

The French and Tuscan dress, your whole discourse; 

This bawd to prodigality entertain'd. 

To buz into your ears, what shape this countess 

Appear'd in, the last mask ; and how it drew 

The young lord's eyes upon her : and this usher 

Succeeded in the eldest 'prentice's place, 

To walk before you. Then, as I said 

(The reverend hood cast oft'), your borrow'd hair, 

Powder'd and curl'd, was by your dresser's art 

Form'd like a coronet, hang'd with diamonds, 

And the richest orient pearl : your carkanets. 

That did adorn your neck, of equal value ; 

Your Hungerland bands, and Spanish Quellio ruffs : 

Great lords and ladies feasted, to survey 

Embroider'd petticoats ; and sickness feign'd, 

That your nightrails of forty pounds a-piece 

Might be seen with envy of the visitants : 

Rich pantables in ostentation shown, 

And roses worth a family. You were serv'd 

In plate ; 

Stirr'd not a foot without a coach ; and going 

To church, not for devotion, but to show 

Your pomp, you were tickled when the beggars cried 

Heaven save your honor. This idolatry 

Paid to a painted room. And, when you lay 

In childbed, at the christening of this minx, 

I well remember it, as you had been 

An absolute princess (since they have no more) 

Tiireo several chambers hung : the first with arras, 

And that for waiters ; the second, crimson satin, 

For the meaner sort of guests ; the third of scarlet 



176 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Of the rich Tyrian dye : a canopy 

To cover the brat's cradle ; you in state, 

Like Pompey's Julia. 

Lady. No more, I pray you. 

Luke. Of this be sure you shall not. I '11 cut off 
Whatever is exorbitant in you, 
Or in your daughters ; and reduce you to 
Youf natural forms and habits: not in revenge 
Of your base usage of me ; but to fright 
Others by your example. 

[This bitter satire against the city women for aping the fashions of the 
court ladies, must have been peculiarly gratifying- to the females of the 
Herbert family and the rest of Massinger's noble patrons and patronesses. 



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS : A COMEDY. BY PHILIP 
MASSINGER. 

Overreach (a n^uel extortioner) treats about marrying hm daughter With 
Lord Lovell. 

LovELL. Overreach. 

Over. To my wish we are private. 
I come not to make offer with my daughter 
A certain portion ; that were poor and trivial ; 
In one word I pronounce all that is mine, 
In lands or leases, ready coin or goods, 
With her, my lord, comes to you ; nor shall you have 
One motive to induce you to believe 
I live too long, since every year I'll add 
Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too. 

Lov. You are a right kind father. 

Over. You shall have reason 
To think me such. How do you like this seat ? 
It is well-wooded and v/ell-water'd, the acres 
Fertile and rich : would it not serve for change, 
To entertain your friends in a summer's progress? 
What thinks my noble lord ? 



NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 177 



Lov. 'Tis a wholesome air, 
And well built, and she,* that is mistress of it. 
Worthy the large revenues. 

Over. She the mistress ? 
It may be so for a tiine : but let my lord 
Say only that he but like it, and would have it ; 
I say, ere long 'tis his. 

Lov. Impossible. 

Over. You do conclude too fast ; not knowing me, 
Nor the engines that I work by. 'Tis not alone 
The lady AlJworth's lands : but point out any man's 
In all the shire, and say they lie convenient 
And useful for your lordship ; and once more 
I say aloud, they are yours. 

Lov. I dare not own 
What's by unjust and cruel means extorted : 
My fame and credit are more dear to me, 
Than so to expose 'em to be censur'd by 
The public voice. 

Over You run, my lord, no hazard : 
Your reputation shall stand as fair 
In all good men's opinions as now : 
Nor can my actions, though condemn'd for ill, 
Cast any foul aspersion upon yours. 
For though I do contemn report myself, 
x\s a mere sound ; I still will be so tender 
Of what concerns you in all points of honor. 
That the immaculate whiteness of your fame. 
Nor your unquestioned integrity. 
Shall o'er be sullied with one taint or spot 
That may take from your innocence and candor. 
As r.iy ambition is to have my daughter 
Right honorable ; which my lord can make her : 
And niiglit I live to dance upon my knee 
A young lord Lovell, born by her unto you, 
I write 7iil ultra to my proudest hopes. 

* Thp Lady Alhvorth. 
v^r^r I!. 13 



78 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS 



As for possessions and annual rents, 

Equivalent to maintain you in the port 

Your noble birth and present state require, 

I do remove that burden from your shoulders, 

And take it on mine own : for though I ruin 

The country to supply your riotous waste, 

The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find you. 

Lov. Are you not frighted with the imprecations 
And curses of whole families, made wretched 
By your sinister practices ? 

Over. Yes, as rocks are 
When foamy billows split themselves against 
Their flinty ribs ; or as the moon is mov'd 
When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness. 
I am of a solid temper, and, like these, 
Steer on a constant course : with mine own sword, 
If call'd into the field, I can make that right, 
Which fearful enemies murmur'd at as wrong. 
Now, for those other piddling complaints, 
Breath'd out in bitterness ; as, when they call me 
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder 
On my poor neighbor's right, or grand encloser 
Of what was common to my private use ; 
Nay, when my ears are pierc'd with widows' cries, 
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold : 
I only think what 'tis to have my daughter 
Right honorable ; and 'tis a powerful charm, 
Makes me insensible of remorse or pity, 
Or the least sting of conscience. 

Lov. I admire 
The toughness of your nature. 

Over. 'Tis for you. 
My lord and for my daughter, I am marble. 



THE PICTURE. 179 



THE PICTURE: A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER. 

Jlfatthias, a knight of Bohemia, going to the wars ; in parting with his 
wife, shows her substantial reasons why he should go. 

Matthias. Sophia. 

Mat. Since we must part, Sophia, to pass further 
Is not alone impertinent, but dangerous. 
We are not distant from the Turkish camp 
Above five leagues ; and who knows but some party 
Of his Timariots, that scour the country, 
May fall upon us ? Be now, as thy name 
Truly interpreted* hath ever spoke thee, 
Wise and discreet ; and to thy understanding 
Marry thy constant patience. 

Soph. You put me, sir, 
To the utmost trial of it. 

Mat. Nay, no melting : 
Since the necessity, that now separates us, 
We have long since disputed ; and the reasons, 
Forcing me to it, too oft wash'd in tears. 
I grant that you in birth were far above me. 
And great men my superiors rivals for you ; 
But mutual consent of heart, as hands 
Join'd by true love, hath made us one and equal ; 
Nor is it in me mere desire of fame, 
Or to be cried up by the public voice 
For a brave soldier, that puts on my armor ; 
Such airy tumors take not me : you know 
How narrow our demeans are ; and what's more. 
Having as yet no charge of children on us, 
We hardly can subsist. 

Soph. In you alone, sir, 
I have all abundance. 

Mat. For my mind's content. 
In your own language I could answer you. 

* Sophia ; wisdom, 



180 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



You have been an obedient wife, a right one; 

And to my power, though short of your desert, 

I have been ever an indulgent husband. 

We have long enjoy'd the sweets of love, and though 

Not to satiety or loathing, yet 

We must not live such dotards on our pleasures, 

As still to hug them to the certain loss 

Of profit and preferment. Competent means 

Maintains a quiet bed, want breeds dissension 

Even in good women. 

Soph. Have you found in me, sir, 
Any distaste or sign of discontent, 
For want of what's superfluous ? 

Mat. No, Sophia ; 
Nor shalt thou ever have cause to repent 
Thy constant course in goodness, if heaven bless 
My honest undertakings. '"Tis for thee. 
That I turn soldier, and put forth, dearest, 
Upon this sea of action as a "factor. 
To trade for rich materials to adorn 
Thy noble parts, and show 'em in full lustre. 
1 blush that other ladies, less in beauty 
And outward form, but, in the harmony 
Of the soul's ravishing music, the same age 
Not to be named with thee, should so outshine thee 
In jewels and variety of wardrobes ; 
While you, to whose sweet innocence both Indies 
Compar'd are of no value, wanting these. 
Pass unregarded. 

Soph. If I am so rich, 
Or in your opinion so, why should you borrow 
Additions for me ? 

Mat. Why ? I should be censur'd 
Of ignorance, possessing such a jewel, 
Above all prices, if I forbear to give it 
The best of ornaments. Therefore, Sophia, 
In a few words know my pleasure, and obey me ; 
As you have ever done. To your discretion 



THE PICTURE. 181 



I leave the government of my family, 
And our poor fortunes, and from these command 
Obedience to you as to myself: 
To th' utmost of what's mine, live plentifully : 
And, ere the remnant of our store be spent. 
With my good sword I hope I shall reap for you 
A harvest in such full abundance, as 
Shall make a merry winter. 
Soph. Since you are not 
To be diverted, sir, from what you purpose, 
All arguments to stay you here are useless. 
Go when you please, sir. Eyes, I charge you, waste not 
One drop of sorrow ; look you hoard all up, 
Till in my widow'd bed I call upon you : 
But then be sure you fail not. You blest angels, 
Guardians of human life, I at this instant 
Forbear t' invoke you at our parting ; 'twere 
To personate devotion. My soul 
Shall go along with you ; and when you are 
Circled with death and horror, seek and find you ; 
Ana then I will not leave a saint unsued to 
For your protection. To tell you what 
I will do in your absence, would show poorly ; 
My actions shall speak me. 'Twere to doubt you, 
To beg I may hear from you where you are ; 
You cannot live obscure : nor shall one post. 
By night or day, pass unexamin'd by me. 
If I dwell long upon your lips, consider 
After this feast the griping fast that follows ; 
And it will be excusable ; pray, turn from me : 
All that I can is spoken. 

[The good sense, rational fondness, and chastised feeling, of this dialogue, 
make it more valuable than many of those scenes in which this writer has 
attempted a deeper passion and more tr^jical interest. Massinger had not 
the higher requisites of his art in anything like the degree in which they 
were possessed by Ford, Webster, Tourneur, Heywood, and others. He 
never shakes or disturbs the mind with grief. He is read with composure 
and placid delight. He wrote with that equability of all the passions. 



1S2 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



which made his English style the purest and most free from violent metaphors 
and harsh constructions, of any of the dramatists who were his contempora- 
ries.] 



THE PARLIAMENT OF LOVE: A COMEDY. BY PHILIP 
MASSINGER. 

Clcremond takes an oath to perform his mistress Leonora^ s pleasure. She 
enjoins him to kill his best friend. He invites Montrose to the field, 
■under pretence of wanting him for a second: then shows, that hemttst 
fight with him. 

■Cler. This is the place. 

Mont. An even piece of ground, 
Without advantage ; but be jocund, friend : 
The honor to have enter'd first the field, 
However we come off, is ours. 

Cler. I need not, 
So well I am acquainted with your valor. 
To dare, in a good cause, as much as man, 
Lend you encouragement ; and should I add, 
Your power to do, which Fortune, howe'er blind, 
Hath ever seconded, I cannot doubt 
But victory still sits upon your sword, 
And must not now forsake you. 

Mont. You shall see me 
Come boldly up ; nor will I shame your cause. 
By parting with an inch of ground not bought 
With blood on my part. 

Cler. 'Tis not to be question'd : 
That which I would entreat (and pray you grant it), 
Is, that you wodkl forget your usual softness, 
Your foe being at your mercy ; it hath been 
A custom in you, which I dare not praise. 
Having disarm'd your enemy of his sword. 
To tempt your fate, by yielding it again ; 
Then run a second hazard. 

Mont. When we encounter 



THE PICTURE. I83 



A noble foe, we cannot be too noble. 

Cler. That I confess ; but he that 's now to oppose you, 
I know for an arch villain ; one that hath lost 
All feeling of humanity, one that hates 
Goodness in others, 'cause he 's ill himself; 
A most ungrateful wretch (the name 's too gentle. 
All attributes of wickedness cannot reach him). 
Of whom to have deserved, beyond example. 
Or precedent of friendship, is a wrong 
Which only death can satisfy. 

Mont. You describe 
A monster to me. 

Cler. True, Montrose, he is so. 
Africk, though fertile of strange prodigies. 
Never produced his equal ; be wise, therefore, 
And if he fall into your hands, dispatch him : 
Pity to him is cruelty. The sad father. 
That sees his son stung by a snake to death. 
May, with more justice, .stay his vengeful hand 
And let the worm escape, than you vouchsafe him 
A minute to repent : for 'tis a slave 
So sold to hell and mischief, that a traitor 
To his most lawful prince, a church-robber, 
A parricide, who, when his garners are 
Cramm'd with the purest grain, suffers his parents, 
Being old, and weak, to starve for want of bread, 
Compared to him are innocent. 

Mont. I ne'er heard 
Of such a cursed nature ; if long-lived. 
He would infect mankind : rest you assured. 
He finds from me small courtesy. 

Cler. And expect 
As little from him ; blood is that he thirsts for. 
Not honorable wounds. 

Mont. I would I had him 
Within my sword's length ! 

Ckr. Have thy wish : Thou hast ! 

ICleremond draws hta sword. 



184 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Nay draw thy sword and suddenly ; I am 

That monster, temple-robber, parricide, 

Ingrateful wretch, friend-hater, or what else 

Makes up the perfect figure of the devil, 

Should he appear like man. Banish amazement. 

And call thy ablest spirits up to guard thee 

From him that 's turn'd a fury. I am made 

Her minister, whose cruelty but named 

Would with more horror strike the pale-cheek'd stars, 

Than all those dreadful words which conjurors use 

To fright their damn'd familiars. Look not on me 

As I am Cleremond ; I have parted with 

The essence that was his, and entertain'd 

The soul of some fierce tigress, or a wolf's 

New-hang'd for human slaughtei', and 'tis fit : 

I could not else be an apt instrument 

To bloody Leonora. 

Mont. To my knowledge 
I never wrong'd her. 

Cler. Yes, in being a friend 
To me, she hated my best friend, her malice 
Would look no lower : — and for being such, 
By her commands, Montrose, I am to kill thee 
Oh, that thou hadst, like others, been all words, 
And no performance ! or that thou hadst made 
Some little stop in thy career of kindness ! 
Why wouldst thou, to confirm the name of friend. 
Snatch at this fatal office of a second. 

Which others fled from ? 'Tis in vain to mourn now, 

When there 's no help ! and therefore, good Montrose, 

Rouse thy most manly parts, and think thou stand'st now, 

A champion for more than king or country ; 

Since in thy fall, goodness itself must suffer. 

Remember too, the baseness of the wrong 

Offer'd to friendship ; let it edge thy sword, 

And kill compassion in thee ; and forget not 

I will take all advantages : and so. 

Without reply, have at thee. [They fight, Cleremond falls. 



A VERY WOMAN. 185 



Mont. See, how weak 
An ill cause is ! you are already fallen : 
What can you look for now ? 

Cler. Fool, use thy fortune : 
And so he counsels thee, that, if we had 
Changed places, instantly would have cut thy throat, 
Or digg'd thy heart out. 

Mont. In requital of 
That savage purpose, I must pity you : 
Witness these tears, not tears of joy for conquest ; 
But of true sorrow for your misery. 
Live, O live, Cleremond, and, like a man. 
Make use of reason, as an exorcist 
To cast this devil out, that does abuse you ; 
This fiend of false affection. 



A VERY WOMAN ; OR, THE PRINCE OF TARENT : A TRAGI- 
COMEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER. 

Don John Antonio, Prince of Tarent, in the disguise of a slave, recounts 
to the Lady Almira, she 7iot knowing him in that disguise, the story of 
his own passion for her, and of the unworthy treatment which he found 
from her. 

John. Not far from where my father lives, a lady, 
A neighbor by, blest with as great a beauty 
As Nature durst bestow without undoing, 
Dwelt, and most happily, as I thought then. 
And bless'd the house a thousand times she dwelt in. 
This beauty, in the blossom of my youth, 
When my first fire knew no adulterate incense, 
Nor I no way to flatter but my fondness. 
In all the bravery my friends could show me, 
In all the faith my innocence could give me. 
In the best language my true tongue could tell me, 
And all the broken sighs my sick heart lent me, 
{ sued, and serv'd. Long did I love this lady, 
Long was my travail, long my trade, to win her : 



186 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

With all the duty of my soul I serv'd her. 

Aim. How feelingly he speaks ! And she loved you too ? 
It must be so. 

John. I would it had, dear lady. 
This story had been needless ; and this place, 
I think, unknown to nie. 

Aim. Were your bloods equal ? 

John. Yes ; and, I thought, our hearts too. 

Aim. Then she must love. 

John. She did ; but never me : she could not love me j 
She would not love ; she hated ; more, she scorn'd me : 
And in so poor and base a way abused me, 
For all my services, for all my bounties, 
So bold neglects flung on me 

Aim. An ill woman ! 
Belike you found some rival in your love then ? 

John. How perfectly she points me to my story ! '[Aside. 
Madam, I did ; and one whose pride and anger, 
111 manners, and worse mein, she doated on ; 
Doated, to my undoing and my ruin. 
And, but for honor to your sacred beauty. 
And reverence to the noble sex, though she fall 
(As she must fall, that durst be so unnoble), 
I should say something unbeseeming me. 
What out of love, and worthy love, I gave her 
(Shame to her most unworthy mind), to fools. 
To girls, and fiddlers, to her boys she flung, 
And in disdain of me. 
Last, to blot me 

From all rememb'rance, what I have been to her, 
And how, how honestly, how nobly serv'd her, 
'Twas thought she set her gallant to dispatch me. 
'Tis true, he quarrell'd, without place, or reason ; 
We fought, I kill'd him ; heaven's strong hand was with me ; 
For which I lost my country, friends, acquaintance. 
And put myself to sea, where a pirate took me, 
And sold me here. 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT. 187 



THE UNNATURAL COMBAT : A TRAGEDY. BY PHILIP MAS- 
SINGER. 

Malefort senior. Admiral of Marseilles, poisons his first wife to make 
way for a second. This coming to the knowledge of his son, Malefort 
junior, he challenges his father to fight him. This unnatural combat 
is performed before the Governor and the Court of Marseilles. The 
spectators retiring to some distance, the father and son parley before 
the fight commences. 

Malefort senior. MAhETour junior. 

Mai. sen. Now we are alone, sir ; 
And thou hast liberty to unload the burden 
Which thou groan'st under. Speak thy griefs. 

Mai. jun. I shall, sir ; 
But in a perple.xt form and method, which 
You only can interpret : would you had not 
A guilty knowledge in your bosom of 
The language which you force me to deliver, 
So I were nothing ! As you are my father, 
I bend my knee, and uncompell'd profess. 
My life and all that's mine to be your gift, 
And that in a son's duty I stand bound 
To lay this head beneath your feet, and run 
All desperate hazards for your ease and safety. 
But, this confess'd on my part, I rise up ; 
And not as with a father (all respect. 
Love, fear, and reverence, cast off) but as 
A wicked man, I thus expostulate with you. 
Why have you done that which I dare not speak ? 
And in the action chang'd the humble shape 
Of my obedience to rebellious rage 
And insolent pride ? and with shut eyes constrain 'd me 
To run my bark of honor on a shelf, 
I must not see, nor, if I saw it, shun it ? 
In my wrongs nature suffers, and looks backward ; 
And mankind trembles to see me pursue 
What beasts would fly from. For when I advance 
This sword, as I must do, against your head, 



188 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Piety will weep, and filial duty mourn, 
To see their altars, which you built up in me, 
In a moment raz'd and ruin'd. That you could 
(From my griev'd soul I wish it) but produce 
To qualify, not excuse, your deed of horror, 
One seeming reason : that I might fix here, 
And move no further ! 

Mai. sen. Have I so far lost 
A father's power, that I must give account 
Of my actions to my son ? or must I plead 
As a fearful prisoner at the bar, while he 
That owes his being to me sits as judge 
To censure that, which only by myself 
Ought to be question'd ? mountains sooner fall 
Beneath their valleys, and the lofty pine 
Pay homage to the bramble, or what else is 
Preposterous in nature, ere my tongue 
In one short syllable yields satisfaction 
To any doubt of thine ; nay, though it were 
A certainty, disdaining argument : 
Since, though my deeds wore hell's black livery, 
To thee they should appear triumphant robes. 
Set off with glorious honor : thou being bound 
To see with my eyes, and to hold that reason 
That takes or birth or fashion from my will, 

Mai. jiin. This sword divides that slavish knot. 

Mai. sen. It cannot, 
It cannot, wretch ; and thou but remember 
From whom thou hadst this spirit, thou dar'st not hope it 
Who train'd thee up in arms, but I ? who taught thee 
Men were men only when they durst look down 
With scorn on death and danger, and contemn 'd 
All opposition, till plum'd victory 
Had made her constant stand upon their helmets '? 
Under my shield thou hast fought as securely 
As the young eaglet, covered with the wings 
Of her fierce dam, learns how and where to prey. 
All that is manlv in thee, I call mine : 



VIRGIN MARTYR. 189 



But what is weak and womanish, thine own. 

And what I gave (since thou art proud, ungrateful, 

Presuming to contend with him, to whom 

Submission is due) I will take from thee. 

Look therefore for extremities, and expect not 

I will correct thee as a son, but kill thee 

As a serpent swoln with poison ; who surviving 

A little longer, with infectious breath, 

Would render all things near him, like itself, 

Contagious. 

Mai. jun. Thou incensed power, 
Awhile forbear thy thunder : let me have 
No aid in my revenge, if from the grave 
My mother 

Mai. sen. Thou shalt never name her more 



{They fight, and the son is slain.) 
Mai. sen. Die all my fears, 
And waking jealousies, which have so long 
Been my tormentors ; there 's now no suspicion : 
A fact, which I alone am conscious of, 
Can never be discovcr'd, or the cause 
That call'd this duel on; I being above 
All perturbations ; nor is it in 
The power of fate again to make me wretched. 



THE VIRGIN MARTYR: A TRAGEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER 
AND THOMAS DECKER. 

Angela, an aiigel, attends Dorothea, as a page. 

Angelo. Dorothea. The time, midnight. 

Dor. My book and taper. 

Ang. Here, most holy mistress. 

Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never 
Was ravished with a more celestial sound. 
Were every servant in the world like thee, 
So full of ffoodness, angels would come down 



190 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



To dwell with us : thy name is Angela, 

And like that name thou art. Get thee to rest ; 

Thy youth with too much watching is opprest. 

Ang. No, my dear lady. I could weary stars, 
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes, 
By my late watching, but to wait on you. 
When at your prayers you kneel before the altar, 
Methinks I 'm singing with some quire in heaven, 
So blest I hold me in your company. 
Therefore, my most lov'd mistress, do not bid 
Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence ; 
For then you break his heart. 

Dor. Be nigh me still, then. 
In golden letters down I '11 set that day, 
Which gave thee to me. Little did 1 hope 
To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself, 
This little, pretty body, when I coming 
Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy. 
My sweet-fac'd, godly beggar-boy, crave an alms, 
Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand ; 
And when I took thee home, my most chaste bosom 
Methought was fiU'd with no hot wanton fire, 
But with a holy flame, mounting since higher. 
On wings of cherubims, than it did before. 

Ang. Proud am I that my lady's modest eye 
So likes so poor a servant. 

•Dor. I have offer'd 
Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. 
I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some. 
To dwell with thy good father ; for, the son 
Bewitching me so deeply with his presence, 
He that begot him must do 't ten times more. 
I pray thee, my sweet boy, show me thy parents ; 
Be not ashamed. 

Ang. I am not : I did never 
Know who my mother was ; but, by yon palace, 
FiU'd with bright heav'nly courtiers, I dare assure you, 
And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand, 



FATAL DOWRY. 191 



My father is in heav'n ; and, pretty mistress 
If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand 
No worse, than yet it doth, upon my life, 
You and I both shall meet my father there, 
And he shall bid you welcome. 
Dor. A bless'd day ! 

[This scene has beauties of so very high an order that, with all my respect 
for Massinger, I do not think he had poetical enthusiasm capable of fur- 
nishing them. His associate Decker, who wrote Old Fortunatus, had poetry 
enough for anything. The very impurities which obtrude themselves among 
the sweet pieties of this play (like Satan among the Sons of Heaven) and 
which the brief scope of my plan fortunately enables me to leave out, have 
a strength of contrast, a raciness, and a glow in them, which are above 
Massinger. They set off the religion of the rest, somehow as Caliban serves 
'^0 show Miranda.] 



THE FATAL DOWRY; A TRAGEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER 
AND NATHANIEL FIELD. 

The Marshal of Burgundy dies in prison at Dijon for debts contracted 
by him for the service of the state in the wars. His dead body is ar- 
rested and denied burial by his creditors. His son, young Charalois, 
gives up himself to prison fo redeem his father's body, that it may have 
honorable burial. He has leave from his prison doors to view the cere- 
mony of the funeral, but to go no further. 

Enter three gentlemen, Pontalier, Malotin, and Beaumont, as 
spectators of the funeral. 

Mai. 'Tis strange. 

Bcaum. Methinks so. 

Pont. In a man but young, 
Yet old in judgment ; theoric and practic 
In all humanity ; and, to increase the wonder, 
Religious, yet a soldier, — that he should 
Yield his free-living youth a captive, for 
The freedom of his aged father's corpse ; 
And rather choose to want life's necessaries, 
Liberty, hope of fortune, than it should 
In death be kept from christian ceremony. 



192 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Mai. Come, 'tis a golden precedent in a son, 
To let strong nature have the better hand, 
In such a case, of all affected reason. 
What years sit on this Charalois ? 

Beaum. Twenty-eight. 
For since the clock did strike him seventeen old, 
Under his father's wing this son hath fought, 
Serv'd and commanded, and so aptly both, 
That sometimes he appeared his father's father. 
And never less than his son ; the old man's virtues 
So recent in him, as the world may swear 
Nought but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear. 

Mai. This morning is the funeral ? 

Pont. Certainly, 
And from this prison, — 'twas the son's request. 

[Chakalois appears at the door of the prison. 
That his dear father might interment have. 
See, the young son enter'd a lively grave. 

Beaum. They come. Observe their order. 

The funeral procession enters. Captain and soldiers, mourners. Romont, 
friend to the deceased. Three creditors are among the spectators 
Charalois speaks. 

Char. How like a silent stream shaded with night. 
And gliding softly with our windy sighs, 
Moves the whole frame of this solemnity ! 
Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile j 
Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove 
Of death, thus hollowly break forth ! — vouchsafe 
To stay awhile. Rest, rest in peace, dear earth ! 
Thou that broughtst rest to their unthankful lives, 
Whose cruelty denied thee rest in death ! 
Here stands thy poor executor, thy son. 
That makes his life prisoner to bail thy death ; 
Who gladlier puts on this captivity. 
Than virgins, long in love, their wedding weeds. 
Of all that ever thou hast done good to, 
These only have good memories ; for they 



FATAL DOWRY. 193 



Remember best, forget not gratitude. 

I thank you for this last and friendly love, 

And though this country, like a viperous mother, 

Not only hath eat up ungratefully 

All means of thee, her son, but last thyself. 

Leaving thy heir so bare and indigent. 

He cannot raise thee a poor monument. 

Such as a flatterer or an usurer hath ; 

Thy worth in every honest breast builds one. 

Making their friendly hearts thy funeral stone. 

Pont. Sir! 

Char. Peace ! O peace ! This scene is wholly mine — 
What ! weep you, soldiers ? — blanch not. — Romont weeps.— 
Ha ! let me see ! my miracle is eas'd ; 
The jailors and the creditors do weep ; 
E'en they that make us weep, do weep themselves. 
Be these thy body's balm : these, and thy virtue, — 
Keep thy fame ever odoriferous. 
Whilst the great, pi'oud, rich, undeserving man 
Alive stinks in his vices, and, being vanish'd. 
The golden calf that was an idol, deck'd 
With marble pillars, jet and porphyry. 
Shall quickly both in bone and name consume, 
Tho' wrapt in lead, spice, cerecloth, and perfume. 

Creditor. Sir ! 

Char. What ! — away for shame, — you, profane rogues^ 
Must not be mingled with these holy relics : 
This is a sacrifice — our show'r shall crown 
His sepulchre with olive, myrrh, and bays. 
The plants of peace, of sorrow, victory : 
Your tears would spring but weeds. 

Rom. Look, look, you slaves ! your thankless cruelty, 
And savage manners of unkind Dijon, 
Exhaust these floods, and not his father's death. 

Priest. On. 

Char. One moment more. 
But to bestow a few poor legacies. 
All I have left in my dead father's right, 

PART II 14 



J 94 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



And I have done. Captain, wear thou these spurs, 

That yet ne'er made his horse run from a foe. 

Lieutenant, thou this scarf; and may it tie 

Thy valor and thy honesty together, 

For so it did in him. Ensign, this cuirass, 

Your general's necklace once. You, gentle bearers, 

Divide this purse of gold : this other strevi^ 

Among the poor. 'Tis all I have. Romont, 

A¥ear thou this medal of himself, that like 

A hearty oak grew'st close to this tall pine, 

E'en in the wildest wilderness of war, 

Whereon foes broke their swords, and tir'd themselves : 

Wounded and hack'd ye were, but never fell'd. 

For me, my portion provide in heaven : 

My root is earth'd, and I, a desolate branch, 

Left scatter'd in the highway of the world, 

Trod under foot, that might have been a column 

Mainly supporting our demolish'd house. 

This* would I wear as my inheritance, — 

And what hope can arise to me from it, 

When I and it are here both prisoners ? 

Only may this, if ever we be free. 

Keep or redeem me from all infamy. 

Jailor. You must no farther. — 
The prison limits you, and the creditors 
Exact the strictness. — 



THE OLD LAW : A COMEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER, 
THOMAS MIDDLETON, AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. 

The Duke of Epire enacts a law, that all men who have reached the age 
of fourscore, shall be put to death, as being adjudged useless to the 
commonwealth. Simonides, the bad, and Cleanthes, the good son, 
are differently affected by the promulgation of the edict. 

Sim. Cleanthes, 
Oh, lad, here's a spring for young plants to flourish ! 

* His father's svvovd. 



OLD LAW. 195 

The old trees must down, kept the sun from us. 
We shall rise now, boy. 

Cle. Whither, sir, I pray ? 
To the bleak air of storms, among those trees 
Which we had shelter from. 

Sim. Yes, from our growth, 
Our sap and livelihood, and from our fruit. 
What ! 'tis not jubilee with thee yet, I think ; 
Thou look'st so sad on 't. How old is thy father ? 

Cle. Jubilee ! no, indeed ; 'tis a bad year with me. 

Sim. Prithee, how old's thy father ? then I can tell thee. 

Cle. I know not how to answer you, Simonides. 
He is too old, being now expos'd 
Unto the rigor of a cruel edict ; 
And yet not old enough by many years, 
'Cause I 'd not see him go an hour before me. 

Sim. These very passions I speak to my father. 

:} ******* 

Cle. Why, here's a villain, 
Able to corrupt a thousand by example. 
Does the kind root bleed out its livelihood 
In parent distribution to his branches. 
Adorning them with all his glorious fruits. 
Proud that his pride is seen when he's unseen. 
And must not gratitude descend again 
To comfort his old limbs in fruitless winter ? 

Cleanthes, to save his old father , Leonides, from the operation of the law, 
gives out that he is dead, celebrating a pretended funeral, tomake it 
believed. 

Duke. Courtiers. Cleanthes, as following his father's body 
to the grave. 

Duke. Cleanthes ? 

Court. 'Tis, my lord, and in the place 
Of a chief mourner too, but strangely habited. 

Duke. Yet suitable to his behavior, mark it ', 
He comes all the way smiling, do you observe it ? 
I never saw a corse so joyfully follovy'd, 



196 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Light colors and light cheeks — who should this be ? 
'Tis a thing worth resolving, — Cleanthes • 

Cle. O my lord ! 

Duke. He laugh'd outright now. 
Was ever such a contrariety seen 
In natural courses yet, nay, profess'd openly ? 

Cle. 'Tis, of a heavy time, the joyfuU'st day 
That ever son was born to. 

Duke. How can that be ? 

Cle. I joy — to make it plain — my father's dead. 

Duke. Dead? 

Court. Old Leonides ? 

Cle. In his last month dead. 
He beguil'd cruel law the sweetliest 
That ever age was blest to. 
It grieves me that a tear should fall upon 't, 
Being a thing so joyful, but his memory 
Will work it out, I see ; when his poor heart 
Broke, I did not so much, but leap'd for joy 
So mountingly, I touch'd the stars, methought. 
I would not hear of blacks, I was so light. 
But chose a color orient, like my mind : 
For blacks are often such dissembling mourners, 
There is no credit giv'n to 't, it has lost 
All reputation by false sons and widows. 
Now I would have men know what I resemble, 
A truth, indeed ; 'tis joy clad like a joy, 
Which is more honest than a cunning grief 
That's only fac'd with sables for a show, 
But gawdy-hearted. When I saw death come 
So ready to deceive you, sir, forgive me, 
I could not choose but be entirely merry ; 
And yet too, see now, of a sudden. 
Naming but death, I show myself a moi'tal. 
That's never constant to one passion long ; 
I wonder whence that tear came, when I smil'd 
In the production on 't : Sorrow's a thief. 
That can, when joy looks on, steal forth a grief. 



OLD LAW. 197 

But, gracious leave, my lord ; when I've perform'd 
My last poor duty to my father's bones, 
I shall return your servant. 
Duke. Well, perform it, 
The law is satisfied : they can but die. 

Cleanthes conceals Leonides in a secret apartment within a wood, where 
himself, and his wife Hippolita, keep watch for the safety of the old 
man. This coming to the Duke^s knowledge, he repairs to the wood 
and makes duicovery of the place where they have hid Leonides. 

The Wood. — Cleanthes listening, as fearing every sound. 

Cle. What's that ? Oh, nothing but the whisp'ring wind 
Breathes thro' yon churlish hawthorn, that grew rude 
As if it chid the gentle breath that kiss'd it. 
1 cannot be too circumspect, too careful, 
For in these woods lies hid all my life's treasure, 
Which is too much ever to fear to lose, 
Though it be never lost; and if our watchfulness 
Ought to be wise and serious 'gainst a thief 
That comes to steal our goods, things all without us. 
That prove vexation often more than comfort. 
How mighty ought our providence to be 
To prevent those, if any such there were. 
That come to rob our bosom of our joys, 
That only make poor man delight to live ! 
Pshaw, I 'm too fearful — fie, fie, who can hurt me ? 
But 'tis a general cowardice, that shakes 
The nerves of confidence ; he that hides treasure, 
Imagines every one thinks of that place, 
When lis a thing least minded ; nay, let him change 
The place continually, where'er it keeps. 
There will the fear keep still. Yonder 's the storehouse 
Of all my comfort now — and, see, it sends forth 

Hippolita enters. 

A dear one to me. Precious chief of women ! 
How does the good old soul ? has he fed well ? 

Hip. Beshrf>w me. !=ii-, he made the heartiest meal to-day, 



198 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS 

Much good may 't do his health. 

Cle. A blessing on thee, 
Both for thy news and wish. 

Hip. His stomach, sir, 
Is better'd wond'rously, since his concealment. 

Cle. Heav'n has a blessed work in 't. Come, we 're safe here. 
I prithee, call him forth, the air is much wholesomer. 

Hip. Father. 

Leonides comes forth. 

Leon. How sweetly sounds the voice of a good woman ! 
It is so seldom heard, that, when it speaks, 
It ravishes all senses. Lists of honor ! 
I 've a joy weeps to see you, 'tis so full, 
So fairly fruitful. 

Cle. I hope to see you often, and return 
Loaden with blessing, still to pour on some. 
I find them all in my contented peace, 
And lose not one in thousands, they 're dispers'd 
So gloriously, I know not which are brightest ; 
I find them, as angels are found, by legions. 

A horn is heard. 
Ha!— 

Leon. What was 't disturb'd my joy ? 

Cle. Did you not hear, 
As afar off" ? 

Hip. What, my excellent consort ? 

Cle. Nor you 



Hip. I heard a — 
Cle. Hark again- 



Leon. Bless my joy, 
What ails it on a sudden ? 

Cle. Now since lately 

Leon. 'Tis nothing but a symptom of thy care, man. 
Cle. Alas, you do not hear well. 
Leon. What was 't, daughter ? 
Hip. I heard a sound twice. 
Cle. Hark ! louder and nearer. 



OLD LAW. 199 

In, for the precious good of virtue, quick, sir. 
Louder and nearer yet ; at hand, at hand ; 
A hunting here ! 'tis strange ! I never knew 
Game follow'd in these woods before. [Leonides goes in. 

Hip. Now let them come, and spare not. 

Enter Duke, Courtiers, Attendants, as if hunting. 

Cle. Ha ! 'tis is 't not the Duke ? look sparingly. 

Hip. 'Tis he, but what of that ? alas ! take heed, sir ; 
Your care will overthrow us. 

Ck. Come, it shall not. 
Let 's set a pleasant face upon our fears, 
Though our hearts shake with horror. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Duke. Hark! 

Cle. Prithee, proceed ; 
I 'm taken with these light things infinitely, 
Since the old man's decease. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Duke. Why, how should I believe this ? Look, he 's merry, 
As if he had no such charge. One with that care 
Could never be so still ; he holds his temper, 
And 'tis the same still ; with no diffei-ence. 
He brought his father's corpse to the grave with. 
He laugh'd thus then, you know. 

Cotirt. Aye, he may laugh, my lord ; 
That shows but how he glories in his cunning ; 
And, perhaps, done more to advance his wit. 
Than to express affection to his father. 
That only he has over-reach'd the law. 

Duke. If a contempt can be so neatly carried. 

It gives me cause of wonder. 

Cleanthes 

Cle. My lov'd lord— 

Duke. Not mov'd a whit ! 

Constant to lightning still ! 'tis strange to meet you 

Upon a ground so unfrequented, sir : 

This does not fit your passion ; you are for mirth. 

Or I mistake you much. 

Cle. But finding it 



200 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Grow to a noted imperfection in me 

(For anything too much is vicious), 

I come to these disconsolate walks of purpose 

Only to dull and take away the edge on 't. 

I ever had a greater zeal to sadness, 

A natural propension, I confess, my lord, 

Before that chearful accident fell out, — 

If I may call a father's funeral chearful, 

Without wrong done to duty or my love. 

Duke. It seems then you take pleasure in these walks, sir ? 

Cle. Contemplative content I do, my lord : 
They bring into my mind oft meditations 
So sweetly precious, that in the parting 
I find a shower of grace upon my cheeks, 
They take their leave so feelingly. 

Duke. So, sir 

Ck. Which is a kind of grave delight, my lord. 

Duke. And I 've small cause, Cleanthes, to afford you 
The least delight that has a name. 

Cle. My lord 

Duke. In your excess of joy you have express'd 
Your rancor and contempt against my law : 
Your smiles deserve fining ; you have profess'd 
Derision openly ev'n to my face, 
Which might be death, a little more incensed. 
You do not come for any freedom here, 
But for a project of your own ; 
But all that's known to be contentful to thee. 
Shall in the use prove deadly. Your life 's mine, 
I f ever thy presumption do but lead thee 

Into these walks again aye, or that woman 

I ']! have them watch'd a purpose. 

1st Court. Now, now, his color ebbs and flows. 

'Id Court. Mark hers too. 

Hip. Oh ! who shall bring food to the poor old man now ? 
Speak somewhat, good sir, or we are lost for ever. 

[Apart to Cleanthes. 

Cle. Oh ! vou did wondrous ill to rail me again. 



CHABOT. 201 

There are not words to help us. If I entreat, 
'Tis found ; that will betray us worse than silence. 
Prithee, let heaven alone, and let's say nothing. 

[Apart to HippoLiTA. 

Isl Court. You have struck them dumb, my lord. 

2d Court. Look how guilt looks ! 

Cle. He is safe still, is he not ? \ 

Hip. Oh ! you do ill to doubt it. > Apart. 

Cle. Thou art all goodness. ) 

2d Court. Now does your grace believe ? 

Duke. 'Tis too apparent. 
Search, make a speedy search ; for the imposture 
Cannot be far off, by the fear it sends. 

Cle. Ha! 

2d Court. He has the lapwing's cunning, I 'm afraid, my lord, 
That cries most when she is farthest from the nest. 

Cle. Oh ! ^\^e are betrayed. 

[Tliere is an exquisiteaes3 of moral sensibility, making one to gush out 
tears of delight, and a poetical strangeness in all the improbable circum- 
siances of this wild play, which are unlike anything in the dramas which 
Massinger wrote alone. The pathos is of a subtler edge. Middleton and 
Rowley, who assisted in this play, had both of them finer geniuses than 
their associate.] 



THE TRAGEDY OF PHILIP CHABOT, ADMIRAL OF FRANCE. 
BY GEORGE CHAPMAN, AND JAMES SHIRLEY. 

The Admiral is accused of treason, a criminal process is instituted 
against him. and his faithful servant Allegre is put on the rack to make 
him discover : his innocence is at length established hy the confession of 
his enemies ; but the disgrace of having been suspected for a traitor 
by hvi royal Master, sinks so deep into him, that he falls into a mortal 
sickness. 

Ad3iiral. Allegre, supported, betioeen tioo. 

Adm. Welcome my injured servant : what a misery 
Have they made on thee ! 

Al. Though some change appear 
Upon my body, whose severe affliction 
Hath brought it thus tn be snstain'd bv others. 



202 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



My heart is still the same in faith to you, 
Not broken with their rage. 

Adm. Alas poor man. 
Were all my joys essential, and so mighty, 
As the afiected world believes I taste, 
This object were enough t' unsweeten all. 
Though, in thy absence, I had sufFering, 
And felt witl)in me a strong sympathy. 
While for my sake their cruelty did vex 
And fright thy nerves with horror of thy sense, 
Yet in this spectacle I apprehend 
More grief, than all my imagination 
Could let before into me. Didst not curse me 
Upon the torture ? 

Al. Good my lord, let not 
That thought of what I suffer'd dwell upon 
Your memory ; they could not punish more 
Than what my duty did oblige to bear 
For you and justice : but there's something in 
Your looks presents more fear, than all the malice 
Of my tormentors could affect my soul with. 
That paleness, and the other forms you wear, 
Would well become a guilty admiral, one 
Lost to his hopes and honor, not the man 
Upon whose life the fury of injustice, 
Arm'd with fierce lightning and the power of thunder. 
Can make no breach, t was not rack'd till now. 
There's more death in that falling eye, than all 
Rage ever yet brought ibrth. What accident, sir, can blast, 
Can be so black and fatal, to distract 
The calm, the triumph, that should sit upon 
Your noble brow : misfortune could have no 
Time to conspire with fate, since you were rescued 
Bv the great arm of Providence ; nor can 
Those garlands, that now grow about your forehead, 
With all the poison of the world be blasted. 

Adm. Allegre, thou dost bear thy wounds upon thee 
In wide and spacious characters, but in 



CHABOT. 203 

The volume of my sadness thou dost want 

An eye to read. An open force hath torn 

Thy manly sinews, which some time may cure. 

Tlie engine is not seen that wounds thy master ; 

Past all the remedy of art, or time. 

The ilatteries of court, of fame, or honors. 

Thus in the summer a tall flourishing tree, 

Transplanted by strong hand, with all her leaves 

And blooming pride upon her, makes a show 

Of spring, tempting the eye with wanton blossoms ; 

But not the sun with all her amorous smiles, 

The de\vs of morning, or the tears of night, 

Can root her fibres in the earth again ; 

Or make her bosom kind, to growth and bearing : 

But the tree withers ; and those very beams, 

That once were natural warmth to her soft verdure, 

Dry up her sap, and shoot a fever through 

The bark and rind, till she becomes a burden 

To that which gave her life : so Cliabot, Chabot 

Al. Wander in apprehension ! I must 
Suspect your health indeed. 

Adm. No, no, thou shalt not 
Be troubled : I but stirr'd thee with a moral, 
That's empty ; contains nothing. I am well : 
See, I can walk ; poor man, thou hast not strength yet. 

The father of the Jldmiral makes known the condition his son is in to the 

kitig. 

Father. King. 

King. Say, how is my admii'al ? 
The truth upon thy life. 

Fath. To secure his, I would you had. 

King. Ha ! who durst oppose him ? 

Fath. One that hath power enough, hath practis'd on him, 
And made his great heart stoop. 

King. T will revenge it 
With crushing, crushing that rebellious power 
To nothing. Name him. - 



201 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Fatli. He was his friend. 

King. What mischief hath engender'd 
New storms 1 

Fath. 'Tis the old tempest. 

King. Did not we 
Appease all horrors that look'd wild upon him ? 

Fath. You drest his wounds, I must confess, but made 
No cure ; they bleed afresh : pardon me, sir ; 
Although your conscience liave closed too soon, 
He is in danger, and doth want new surgery : 
Though he be right in fame, and your opinion. 
He thinks you were unkind. 

King. Alas, poor Chabot : 
Doth that afflict him ? 

Fath. So much, though he strive 
With most resolv'd and adamantine nerves, 
As ever human fire in flesh and blood 
Forg'd for example, to bear all ; so killing 
The arrows that you shot weve (still, your pardon) 
No centaur's blood could rankle so. 

King. If this 
Be all, I'll cure him. Kings retain 
More balsam in their soul, than hurt in anger. 

Faih. Far short, sir ; with one breath they uncreate : 
And kings, with only words, more wounds can make 
Than all their kingdom made in balm can heal. 
'Tis dangerous to play too v/ild a descant 
On numerous virtue ; though it become princes 
To assure their adventures made in everything. 
Goodness, confin'd within poor flesh and blood, 
Hath but a queazy and still sickly state ; 
A musical hand should only play on her. 
Fluent as air, yet every touch command. 

King. No more : 
Commend us to the admiral, and say 
The king will visit him, and bring health. 

Fath. I will not doubt that blessing, and shall move 
Nimbly with this command. 



CHABOT. 20S 

The King visits the Admiral. 

King. Admiral. His wife, and father. 

King. No ceremonial knees : 
Give me thy heart, my dear, my honest Chabot ; 
And yet in vain I challenge that ; 'tis here 
Already in my own, and shall be cherish'd 
AVith care of my best life : no violence 
Shall ravish it from my possession ; 
Not those distempers that infirm my blood 
And spirits, shall betray it to a fear ; 
When time and nature join to dispossess 
My body of a cold and languishing breath ; 
No stroke in all my arteries, but silence 
In every faculty ; yet dissect me then. 
And in my heart the world shall read thee living ; 
And, by the virtue of thy name writ there, 
That part of me shall never putrify. 
When I am lost in all my other dust. 

Adm. You too much honor your poor servant, sir ; 
My heart despairs so rich a monument, 
But when it dies — 

King. I wo' not hear a sound 
Of anything that trenched upon death. 
He speaks the funeral of my crown, that prophesies 
So unkind a fate : we'll live and die together. 
And by that duty, which hath taught you hitherto 
All loyal and just services, I charge thee. 
Preserve thy heart for me, and thy reward, 
Wiiich now shall crown thy merits. 

Adm. I have found 
A glorious harvest in your favor, sir ; 
And by this overflow of royal grace. 
All my deserts are shadows and fly from me : 
I have not in the wealth of my desires 
Enough to pay you now 

King. Express it in some joy then. 

Adm. I will strive 



206 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



To show that pious gratitude to you, but 

King. But what 1 

Adm. My frame hath lately, sir, been ta'en a pieces, 
A.nd but now put together ; the least force 
Of mirth will shake and unjoint all my reason. 
Your patience, royal sir. 

King. I '11 have no patience, 
If thou forget the courage of a man. 

Adm. My strength would flatter me. 

King. Physicians, 
Now I begin to fear his apprehension. 
Why how is Chabot's spirit fall'n ? 

Adm. Who would not wish to live to serve your goodness '^ 
Stand from me. You betray me with your fears. 
The plummets may fall off that hang upon 
My heart, they were but thoughts at first ; or if 
They weigh me down to death, let not my eyes 
Close with another object than the king. 

King. In a prince 
What a swift executioner is a frown, 
Especially of great and noble souls ! 
How is it with my Philip ? 

Adm. I must beg 
One other boon. 

King. Upon condition 
My Chabot will collect his scatter'd sfirits. 
And be himself again, he shall divide 
My kingdom with me. 

Adm. I observe 
A fierce and killing wrath engender'd in you ; 
For my sake, as you wish me strength to serve you, 
Forgive your chancellor ;* let not the story 
Of Philip Chabot, read hereafter, draw 
A tear from any family ; I beseech 
Your royal mercy on his life, and free 
Remission of all seizure upon his state. 

* Chabot's accuser 



MAID'S REVENGE. 207 



[ have no comfort else. 

King. Endeavor 
But thy own health ; and pronounce general pardon 
To all through France. 

Adm. Sir, I must kneel to thank you ; 
It is not seal'd else. Your blest hand : live happy, 
May all your trust have no less faith than Chabot. 
Oh ! IDics. 

Wife. His heart is broken. 

Father. And kneeling, sir ; 
As his ambition were in death to show 
The truth of his obedience. 



THE MAID'S REVENGE ; A TRAGEDY. BY JAMES SHIRLEY.* 

Sebastiano invites Antonio to Avero Castle. 

Sebastiano. Antonio. 

Seh. The noble courtesies I have receiv'd 
At Lisbon, worthy friend, so much engage me, 
That I must die indebted to your worth, 
Unless you mean to accept what I have studied, 
Although but partly, to discharge the sum 
Due to your honor'd love. 

Ant. How now, Sebastiano, will you forfeit 
The name of friend, then ? I did hope our love 
Had out-grown compliment. 

Seb. I spake my thoughts ; 
My tongue and heart are relatives ; 1 think 
I have deserv'd no base opinion from you ; 
I wish not only to perpetuate 

Our friendship, but t' exchange that common name 
Of friend for — 

* Shirley claims a place amongst the worthies of this period, not so much 
for any transcendent genius in himself, as that he was the last of a great 
race, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral 
feelings and notions in common. A new language and quite a new turn 
of tragic and comic interest came in with the Restoration. 



208 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Ant. What ? take heed, do not profane : 
Wouldst thou be more than friend ? it is a name 
Virtue can only answer to : couldst thou 
Unite into one all goodness whatsoe'er 
Mortality can boast of, thou shalt find 
The circle narrow-bounded to contain 
This swelling treasure ; every good admits 
Degrees, but this being so good, it cannot : 
For he "s no friend is not superlative. 
Indulgent parents, brethren, kindred, tied 
By the natural flow of blood, alliances, 
And what you can imagine, is too light 
To weigh with name of friend : they execute 
At best but what a nature prompts them to ; 
Aie often less than friends, when they remain 
Our kinsmen still : but friend is never lost. 

Seb. Nay then, Antonio, you mistake ; I mean not 
To leave off friend, which, with another title. 
Would not be lost. Come, then, I '11 tell you, sir ; 
I would be friend and brother : thus our friendship 
Shall, like a diamond set in gold, not lose 
His sparkling, but show fairer : I have a pair 
Of sisters, which I would commend, but that 
I might seem partial, their birth and fortunes 
Deserving noble love ; if thou be'st free 
From other fair engagement, I would be proud 
To speak them worthy : come, shalt go and see them. 
I would not beg them suitors ; fame hath spread 
Tlirough Portugal their persons, and drawn to Avero 
Many affectionate gallants. 

Ant. Catalina and Berinthia. 

Seb. The same. 

Ant. Report speaks loud their beauties, and no less 
Virtue in either. Well, I see you strive 
To leave no merit where you mean to honor. 
I cannot otherwise escape the censure 
Of one ungrateful, but by waiting on you 
Home to Avero. 



MAID'S REVENGE. 2L9 



Seb. You shall honor me, 
And glad my noble father, to whom you are 
No stranger ; your own worth before hath been 
Sufficient preparation. 

Ant. Ha! 
I have not so much choice, Sebastiano : 
But if one sister of Antonio's 
May have a commendation to your thoughts 
(I will not spend much art in praising her, 
Her virtue speak itself) I shall be happy ; 
And be confirm'd your brother, though I miss 
Acceptance at Avero. 

Seb, Still you out-do me. I could never wish 
My service better placed. At opportunity 
I '11 visit you at Elvas ; i' the mean time 
Let's haste to Avero, where with you I '11 bring 
My double welcome, and not fail to second 
Any design. 

Ant. You shall teach me a lesson 
Against we meet at Elvas castle, sir. 

Sebastiano" s father welcomes Antonio to Avero Castle. 
ViLLAREzo. Catalina. Bekinthia. Sebastiano. Antonio. 

Vil. Old Caspar's house is honor'd by such guests. 
Now, by the tomb of my progenitors, 
I envied that your fame should visit me 
So oft without your person. Sebastiano 
Hath been long happy in your noble friendship, 
And cannot but improve himself in virtues, 
That lives so near your love. — You shall dishonor me, 
Unless you think yourself as welcome here 
As at your Elvas castle. Villarezo 
Was once as you are, sprightly ; and though I say it, 
Maintain'd my father's reputation. 
And honor of our house, with actions 
Worthy our name and family : but now 
Time hath let fall cold snow upon my hairs. 
Plough 'd on my brows the furrows of his anger, 

PART II. 15 



2U' ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Disfurnish'd me of active blood, and wrapt me 
Half in my sear-cloth, yet I have a mind 
That bids me honor virtue, where I see it 
Bud forth and spring so hopefully. 

Ant. You speak all nobleness, and encourage me 
To spend the greenness of my rising years 
So to th' advantage, that at last I may 
Be old like you. 

Vil. Daughters, speak his welcome. — 

Antonio loves and is beloved by Berinthia, the younger sister. Catalina 
the elder is jealous, and plots to take off her sister by poison. Antonio 
rescues Berinthia from the vindictive jealousy of her sister, and carries 
her off to Elvas Castle ; where his sister Castabella and his cousin 
Villandras welcome her. 

Antonio. Berinthia. Castabella. Villandras. Sfoez>», 
a domestic. 

Ant. The welcom'st guest that ever Elvas had. 

Sister — Villandras you 're not sensible 

What treasure you possess. I have no loves 
I would not here divide. 

Cast. Indeed, madam, 
You are as welcome here as e'er my mother was. 

\'ill. And you are here as safe. 
As if you had an army for your guard. 
Nor think my noble cousin meaneth you 
Any dishonor here. 

Ant. Dislionor ! 'tis a language 
I never understood yet. Throw off your fears, 
Berinthia, you 're in the power of him, 
That dares not think the least dishonor to you. — 
Come, be not sad. 

Cast. Put on fresh blood ; you are not chearful, how do you ? 

Ber. I know not how, nor what to answer you ; 
Your loves I cannot be ungrateful to ; 
You 're my best friends I think, but yet I know not 
With what consent you brought my body hither, 

Ant. Can you be ignorant what plot was laid 
To take your fair life from you? 



MAID'S REVENGE. 211 



Ber. If all be not a dream, I do remember 
Your servant Diego told me wonders, and 
I owe you for my preservation, but — 

Cast. It is your happiness you have escaped 
The malice of your sister. 

Vill. And it is worth 
A noble gratitude to have been quit 
By such an honorer as Antonio is 
Of fair Berinthia. 

Ber. Oh, but my father ; under whose displeasure 
I ever sink. 

Ant. You are secure — 

Ber. As the poor deer that being pursued, for safety 
Gets up a rock that overhangs the sea, 
Where all that she can see is her destruction ; 
Before, the waves ; behind, her enemies. 
Promise her certain ruin. 

Ant. Feign not yourself so hapless, my Berinthia. 
Raise your dejected thoughts, be merry, come, 
Think I am your Antonio. 

Cast. 'Tis not wisdom 
To let our passed fortunes trouble us ; 
Since, were they bad, the memory is sweet 
That we have past them. Look before you, lady ; 
The future most concerneth. 

Diego, a domestic, enters, and announces that Sebastian© is at 
the gate. 

Aut. Your brother, lady, and my honor'd friend. 
Why do the gates not spread themselves to open 
At his arrival ? Sforza, 'tis Berinthia's brother ; 
Sebastiano, th' example of all worth 
And friendship, is come after his sweet sister. 

Ber. Alas, I fear. 

Ant. Be not such a coward, lady, he cannot come 
Without all goodness waiting on him. Sforza, 
Sforza, I say, what precious time we lose ' 
Sebastiano — 1 almost lose myself 



212 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

In joy to meet him. Break the iron bars, 

And give him entrance, — Sebastiano's come 

Ber. Sent by my father to 

Ant. What ? to see thee. He shall see thee here, 
Respected like thyself, Berinthia, 
Attended with Antonio, begirt 
With armies of thy servants. 

Sebastiano enters, with Count de Monte Nigeo, his friend. 

Ant. Oh, my friend. 

Seh. 'Tis yet in question, sir, and will not be 
So easily prov'd. 

Ant. What face have you put on ? am I awake. 
Or do I dream Sebastiano frowns ? 

Seb. Antonio (for here I throw off all 
The ties of love), T come to fetch a sister 
Dishonorably taken from her father ; 
Or with my sword to force thee render her : 
Now if thou be'st a soldier, redeliver, 
Or keep her with the danger of thy person. 

Ant. Promise me the hearing, 
And shalt have any satisfaction, 
Becomes my fame. — 

Wer't in your power, would you not account it 
A precious victory, in your sister's cause, 
To dye your sword with any blood of him, 
Sav'd both her life and honor ? 

Seb. Why, would you have me think 
JMy sister owes to you such preservation ? 

Ant. Oh Sebastiano ! 
Thou dost not think what devil lies at home 
Within a sister's bosom. Catalina 
(I know not with wha* worst of envy) laid 
Force to this goodly building, and through poison 
Had robb'd the earth of more than all the world, 
Her virtue. — 

Valasco was the man appointed by 
That goodly sister to steal Berinthia, 



MAID'S REVENGE. 213 

And lord himself of this possossion. 
Just at that time ; but liear, and troinble at it, 
She by a cunning poison should have broath'd 
Hex' soul into his arms within two hours, 
And so Valasco should have borne the shame 
Of theii and murder. 

Seh. You amaze me, sir. 

Arti. 'Tis true, by honor's self: hear it confirm'd ; 
And when you will, I am ready. 

Seb. T cannot but believe it. Oh Berinthia, 
I 'm wounded ere I fight. 

Ant. Holds your resolve yet constant '? if you have 
Better opinion of your sword, than truth, 
I am bound to answer : but I would 1 had 
Such an advantage 'gainst another man, 
As the justice of my cause ; all valor fights 
But with a sail against it. 

Seb. But will you back with me then? 

Ber. Excuse me, brother : I shall fall too soon 
Upon my sister's malice, whose foul guilt 
Will make me expect more certain ruin. 

Ant. Now Sebastiano 
Puts on his judgment, and assumes his nobleness 
Whilst he loves equity. 

Seb. And shall I carry shame 
To Villarezo's house, neglect of father, 
Whose precepts bind me to return with her, 
Or leave my life at Elvas ? I must on. 
I have heard you to no purpose. Shall Berinthia 
Back to Avero ? 

Ant. Sir, she must not yet ; 
'Tis dangerous. 

Seb. Choose thee a second then : this count and I 
Mean to leave honor here. 

V?ll. Honor me, sir. 

Ant. 'Tis done. Sebastiano shall report 
Antonio just : and, noble Sfiirza, swear 
Upon my sword (Oh. do not hinder me) 



214 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

If victory crown Sebastiano's arm, 
I charge thee by thy honesty restore 
This lady to him ; on whose lip I seal 
My unstain'd faith. 

Antonio falls in a duel by the sword of Sebastiano. Sehastiano is dis- 
consolate for having killed his f-iend. In his penitence ^ he is visited 
by Antonio's sister, Castabella, disguised as a page. 

Castabella. Sebastiano. 

Cast. He that hath sent you, sir, this gift, did love you ; 
You '11 say yourself he did. 

Seb. Ha, name him prithee. 

Cast. The friend I came from was Antonio. 

Seb. Who hath sent thee 
To tempt Sebastiano's soul to act on thee 
Another death, for thus affrighting me ? 

Cast. Indeed I do not mock, nor come to afTright you ; 
Heaven knows my heart. I know Antonio's dead. 
But 'twas a gift he in his life design'd 
To you, and I have brought it. 

Seh. Thou dost not promise cozenage : what gift is 't ? 

Cast. It is myself, sir; whilst Antonio liv'd, 
I was his boy ; but never did boy lose 
So kind a master ; in his life he promis'd 
He would bestow me (so much was his love 
To my poor merit) on his dearest friend, 
And named you, sir, if heaven should point out 
To over-live him, for he knew you would 
Love me the better for his sake : indeed 
I will be very honest to you, and 
Refuse no service to procure your love 
And good opinion to me. 

Sei. Can it be 
Thou wert his boy ? Oh, thou shouldst hate me then. 
Thou art false, I dare not trust thee ; unto him 
Thou show'st thee now unfaithful, to accept 
Of me : I kill'd thy master. 'Twas a friend 
He could commit thee to ; I only was, 



MAID'S REVENGE. 2lh 



Of all the stock of men, his enemy, 
His cruel 'st enemy. 

Cast. Indeed I am sure it was ; he spoke all truth ; 
And, had he liv'd to have made his will, I know 
He had bequeath'd me as a legacy, 
To be your boy ; alas, I am willing, sir. 
To obey him in it : had he laid on me 
Command, to have mingled with his sacred dust 
My unprofitable blood, it should have been 
A. most glad sacrifice, and 't had been honor 
To have done him such a duty : sir, I know 
You did not kill him with a heart of malice, 
But in contention with your very soul 
To part with him. 

Seb. All is as true 
As oracle by heaven ; dost thou believe so ? 

Cast. Indeed I do. 

Seh. Yet be not rash ; 
'Tis no advantage to belong to me ; 
I have no power nor greatness in the court 
To raise thee to a fortune worthy of 
So much observance, as I shall expect 
When thou art mine. 

Cast. All the ambition of my thoughts shall be 
To do my duty, sir. 

Seb. Besides, I shall afflict thy tenderness 
With solitude and passion : for I ain 
Only in love with sorrow, never merry, 
Wear out the day in telling of sad tales, 
Delight in sighs and tears : sometimes I walk 
To a wood or river, purposely to challenge 
The boldest echo to send back my groans 
In th' height I break them. Come, I shall undo thee. 

Cast. Sir, I shall be most happy to bear part 
In any of your sorrows ; I ne'er had 
So hard a heart but I could shed a tear 
To bear my master company. 

Seb. I will not leave thee, if thou 'It dwell with me, 



216 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS, 

For wealth of Indies : be my loved boy, 
Come in with me ; thus I'll begin to do 
Some recompence for dead Antonio. 

Berinthia kills her brother Sebastiano sleeping. 

Castabella. Sebastiano. 

Cast. Sir, if the opportunity I use 
To comfort you be held a fault, and that 
1 need not distance of a servant, lay it 
Upon my love ; indeed, if it be an error, 
It springs out of my duty. 

Seb. Prithee, boy, be patient. 
The more I strive to throw off the remembrance 
Of dead Antonio, love still rubs the wounds 
To make them bleed afresh. 

Cast. Alas, they are past ; 
Bind up your own for honor's sake, and show 
Love to yourself; pray do not lose your reason. 
To make your grief so fruitless. I have procur'd 
Some music, sir, to quiet those sad thoughts 
That make such war within you. 

Seb. Alas, good boy, it will but add more weight 
Of dullness on me ! I am stung with worse 
Than the tarantula, to be cured with music ; 
It has th' exactest unity, but it cannot 
Accord my thoughts. 

Cast. Sir, this your couch 
Seems to invite some small repose : 
Oh, I beseech you taste it. I will beg 
A little leave to sing. [She sings. 

Berinthia enters softly. 
Cast. Sweet sleep charm his sad senses : 
And gentle thoughts let fall 
Your flowing numbers here ; and round about 
Hover celestial angels with your wings 
That none offend his quiet. Sleep begins 
To cast his nets o'er me too ; I'll obev, 



THE POLITICIAN. 217 



And dream on him that dreams not what I am. 

[She lies down by him. 

Ber. Nature doth wrestle with me, but revenge 
Doth arm my love against it ; justice is 
Above all tie of blood. Sebastiano, 
Thou art the first shall tell Antonio's ghost, 
How much I lov'd him. 

[She stabs him upon his couch. 

Seb. (waking.) Oh, stay thy hand, Berinthia ! no : 
Thou 'st done 't. I wish thee heaven's forgiveness. I cannot 
Tarry to hear thy reasons ; at many doors 
My life runs out, and yet Berinthia 
Doth in her name give me more wounds than these. 
Antonio, Oh, Antonio : we shall now 
Be friends again. [Dies. 



THE POLITICIAN : A TRAGEDY. BY JAMES SHIRLEY. 

Marpisa xmdow of Count Altomarus is advanced to be Queen to the King 
of JVorway, by the practices of her paramour Gothams. She has by 
her first husband a young son Haraldus ; to secure whose succession to 
the crown by the aid of Gothams {in prejudice of the king's son, the 
lawful heir) she tells Gotharus that the child is his. He believes her, 
and tells Haraldus ; who taking to heart his mother's dishonor, and his 
own stain of bastardy, falls into a mortal sickness. 

Queen. Hahaldus. 

Queen. How is it with my child ? 

Har. I know you love me : 
Yet I must tell you truth, I cannot live. 
And let this comfort you, death will not come 
Unwelcome to your son. I do not die 
Against my will ; and having my desires, 
You have less cause to mourn. 

Queen. What is 't hath made 
The thought of life unpleasant ? u hich does court 
Thy dwelling here, with all delight? ♦hat nature 



218 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



And art can study for thee, rich in all things 
Thy wish can be ambitious of, yet all 
These treasures nothing to thy mother's love, 
Which to enjoy thee would defer a while 
Her thought of going to heaven. 

Har. O take heed, mother. 
Heaven has a specious ear, and power to punish 
Your too much love with my eternal absence. 
I beg your prayers and blessing. 

Queen. Thou art dejected. 
Have but a will, and live. 

Har. 'Tis in vain, mother. 

Queen. Sink with a fever into earth ! 
Look up, thou shalt not die. 

Har. I have a wound within. 
You do not see, more killing than all fevers. 

Queen. A wound ? where ? who has murther'd thee ? 

Har. Gothams 

Queen. Ha ! furies persecute him. 

Har. O pray for him : 
It is my duty, though he gave me death. 
He is my father. 

Queen. How, thy father ? 

Har. He told me so, and with that breath destroy'd me. 
I felt it strike upon my spirits, mother ; 
Would I had ne'er been born ! 

Queen. Believe him not. 

Har. Oh do not add another sin to what 
Is done already ; death is charitable. 
To quit me from the scorn of all the world. 

Queen. By all my hopes, Gothams has abused thee. 
Thou art the lawful burthen of my womb ; 
Thy father Altomarus. 

Har. Ha! 

Queen. Before whose spirit (long since taken up 
To meet with saints and troops angelical) 
I dare again repeat, thou art his son. 

Har. Ten thousand blessings now reward my mother ! 



THE POLITICIAN. 219 



Speak it again, and I may live : a stream 
Of* pious joy runs through me ; to my soul 
You've struck a harmony, next that in heaven. 
Can you without a blush call me your child, 
And son of Altomarus ? all that's holy 
Dwell in your blood for ever : speak it once, 
But once again. 

Queen. Were it my latest breath ; 
Thou'rt his and mine. 

Har. Enough, my tears do flow 
To give you thanks for 't ; I would you could resolve me 
But one truth more : why did my lord Gotharus 
Call me the issue of his blood ? 

Queen. Alas, 
He thinks thou art. 

Har. What are those words ? I am 
Undone again. 

Queen. Ha ! 

Har. 'Tis too late 
To call 'em back. He thinks I am his son. 

Queen. I have confess'd too much, and tremble with 
The imagination. Forgive me, child, 
And heaven, if there be mercy to a crime 
So black, as I must now, to quit thy fears, 
Say I've been guilty of: we have been sinful, 
And I was not unwilling to oblige 
His active brain for thy advancement, by 
Abusing his belief thou wert his own. 
But thou hast no such stain ; thy birth is innocent, 
Or may I perish ever : 'tis a strange 
Confession to a child, but it may drop 
A balsam to thy wound. Live, my Haraldus, 
If not, for this, to see my penitence. 
And with what tears I'll wash away my sin 

Har. I am no bastard then 

Queen. Thou art not. 

Har. But 
I am not found, while you are lost. No time 



220 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 
Can restore you. My spirits faint 



Queen. Will nothing comfort thee ? 

Har. Give me your blessing ; and, within my heart, 
I'll pray you may have many. My soul flies 
'Bove this vain world : good mother, close mine eyes. 

Queen. Never died so much sweetness in his years.* 



THE BROTHERS : A COMEDY. BY JAMES SHIRLEY. 

Don Ramires leaves his son Fernando with a heavy curse, and a threat 
of disinheriting, if he do not renounce Felisarda, the poor niece of Don 
Carlos, whom he courts, lohen by his father's command, he should ad- 
dress Jacitita, the daughter and rich heiress of Carlos, his younger 
brother Francisco's Mistress. 

Feknando. Francisco. 

Fer. Why does not all the stock of thunder fall ? 
Or the fierce winds, from their close caves let loose, 
Now shake me into atoms 1 

Fran. Fie, noble brother, what can so deject 
Your masculine thoughts ? is this done like Fernando, 
Whose resolute soul so late was arm'd to fight 
With all the miseries of man, and triumph 
With patience of a martyr ? I observed 
My father late come from you. 

Fer. Yes, Francisco : 
He hath left his curse upon me. 

Fran. Hoav ? 

Fer. His cui'se : dost comprehend what that word carries, 
Shot from a father's angry breath ? unless 
I tear poor Felisarda from my heart, 
He hath pronounc'd me heir to all his curses. 
Does this fright thee, Francisco ? Thou hast cause 
To dance in soul for this : 'tis only I 
Must lose, and mourn ; thou shalt have all ; I am 

* Mamillus in the Winter's Tale in this manner droops and dies from a 

conceit of his mother's dffeHblfitor. '"' ' :.':-.r. .i,,y„...-;. 



THE BROTHERS. 221 



Degraded from my birth, while he affects 
Thy forward youth, and only calls thee son, 
Son of his active spirit, and applauds 
Thy progress with Jacinta, in whose smiles 
Thou may'st see all thy wishes waiting for thee ; 
Whilst poor Fernando for her sake must stand 
An excommunicate from every blessing, 
A thing that dare not give myself a name, 
But flung into the world's necessities, 
Until in time, with wonder of my wants, 
I turn a ragged statue, on whose forehead 
Each clown may carve his motto. 

Don Ramires is seized with a mortal sickness, but forbids Fernando to 
approach his chamber till he shall send for him, 07i pain of his dying 
curse. 

Fernando. 
Fer. This turn is fatal, and affrights me ; but 
Hoavcn has more charity than to let him die 
"With such a hard heart ; 'twere a sin, next his 
Want of compassion, to suspect he can 
Take his eternal flight, and leave Fernando 
This desperate legacy ; he will change the curse 
Into some little prayer, I hope ; and then 

Enter Servant and Phyucian. 

Ser. Make haste, I beseech you, doctor. 

Phy. Noble Fernando. 

Fer. As you would have men think your art is meant 
Not to abuse mankind, employ it all 
To cure my poor sick father. 

Phy. Fear it not, sir. 

[Exevnt Physician and Servant 

Fer. But there is more than your thin skill requir'd, 
To state a health ; your recipes, perplext 
With tough names, are but mockeries and noise, 
Without some dew from heaven, to mix and make 'em 
Thrive in the application : what now ? 



222 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. Oh sir, I am sent for the confessor, 
The doctor fears him much ; your brother says 
You must have patience ; and not enter, sir ; 
Your father is a going, good old man, 
And, having made him heir, he's loth 3four presenrp 
Should interrupt his journey. \Exit. 

Fer. Francisco may be honest, yei methinks 
It would become his love to interpose 
For my access, at such a needful hour, 
And mediate for my blessing ; not assist 
Unkindly thus my banishment. I'll not 
Be lost so tamely. Shall my father die, 

And not Fernando take his leave ? I dare not. 

" If thou dost hope I should take otf this curse, 
Do not approach until I send :" 'twas so ; 
And 'tis a law that binds above my blood. 

Enter Confessor and Servant. 
Make haste, good father, and if heaven deny 
Him life, let not his charity die too : 
One curse may sink us both. Say how I kneel, 
And beg he would bequeath me but his blessing. 
Then, though Francisco be his heir, I shall 
Live happy, and take comfort in my tears, 
When I remember him so kind a father. 

Conf. It is your duty. [^Eont 

Fer. Do my holy office. 
Those fond philosophers that magnify 
Our human nature, and did boast we had 
Such a prerogative in our rational soul, 
Convers'd but little with the world, confin'd 
To cells, and unfrequented woods, they knew not 
The fierce vexation of community; 
Else they had taught, our reason is our loss, 
And but a privilege that exceedeth sense 
By nearer apprehension of what wounds. 
To know ourselves most miserable. Mv heart 



THE BROTHERS. 223 

Enter Physician and Francisco. 
Is teeming with new fears. — Ha ! is he dead ? 

Pliy. Not dead, but in a desperate condition ; 
And so that little breath remains we have 
Remitted to this confessor, whose office 
Is all that's left. 

Fer. Is he not merciful to Fernando yet ? 
No talk of me ? 

Phy. I find he takes no pleasure 
To hear you named : Francisco to us all 
He did confirm his heir, with many blessings. 

Fer. And not left one for me ? Oh take me in, 
Thou gentle earth, and let me creep through all 
Thy dark and hollow crannies, till I find 
Another way to come into the world ; 
For all the air I breathe in here is poison 'd. 

Fran. We must have patience, brother, it was no 
Ambitious thought of mine to supplant you ; 
He may live yet, and you be reconcil'd. 

Fer. That was some kindness yet, Francisco : but 
I charge thee by the nearness of our blood, 
When I am made this mockery and wonder, 
I know not where to find out charity, 
If unawares a chance direct my weary 
And wither'd feet to some fair house of thine. 
Where plenty with full blessings crowns thy table, 
If my thin face betray my want of food, 
Do not despise me, 'cause I was thy brother. 

Enter Confessor. 

Fran. Leave these imagin'd horrors, I must not 
Live when my brother is thus miserable. 

Fer. There's something in that face looks comfortably. 

Conf. Your father, sir, is dead. His will to make 
Francisco the sole master of his fortunes 
Is now irrevocable : a small pension 
He hath given you for life, which, with his blessing, 
Is all the benefit I bring. 



224 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



Fer. Ha ! blessing ! speak it again, good father. 

Conf. I did apply some lenitives to soften 
His anger, and prevail'd ; your father hath 
Reversed that heavy censure of his curse, 
And in the place bequeath 'd his prayer and blessing. 

Fer. I am new created by his charity. 

Conf. Some ceremonies are behind : He did 
Desire to be interr'd within our convent, 
And left his sepulture to me ; I am confident. 
Your pieties will give me leave 

Fran. His will in all things I obey, and yours 
Most reverend father : order as you please 
His body ; we may after celebrate 
With all due obsequies his funeral. 

Fer. Why you alone obey ? I am your brother : 
My father's eldest son, though not his heir. 

Fran. It pleas'd my father, sir, to think me worthy 
Of such a title ; you shall find me kind. 
If you can look on matters without envy. 

Fer. If I can look on matters without envy ! 

Fran. You may live here still. 

Fer. I may live here, Francisco ! 

Enter a Gentleman with a letter. 
Conditions ! I w uld not understand 
This dialect. 

Fran. With me, from madam ? 

Gent. If you be signior Francisco. 

Fer. Slighted ! — 
I find my father was not dead till now. 
Crowd not, you jealous thoughts, so thick into 
My brain, lest you do tempt me to an act, 
Will forfeit all again. 

Fernando tells Felisarda that his father is dead. 
Fer. I have a story to deliver ; 
A tale, will make thee sad : but I must tell it. 
There is one dead, that lov'd thee not. 



THE BROTHERS. 225 



Fel. One dead. 
That lov'd not me ? this carries, sir, in nature 
No Itilling sound ;* I shall be sad to know 
I did deserve an enemy or he want • 

A charity at death. 

Fer. Thy cruel enemy, 
And my best friend, hath took eternal leave. 
And 's gone, to heaven, I hope : excuse my tears ; 
It is a tribute I must pay his memory ; 
For I did love my father. 

Fel. Ha ! your father ! 

Fer. Yes, Felisarda, he is gone, that in 
The morning promis'd many years, but death 
Hath in a kw hours made him as stitf, as all 
The winds and winter had thrown cold upon him. 
And whisper'd him to marble. 

Frajicisco offers to restore Fernando his birthright. Fernando dares not 

take it. 

Francisco. Fernando. Don Carlos. 

Fran. What demands 
Fernando ? 

Fer. My inheritance, wrought from me 
By thy sly creeping to supplant my birth. 
And cheat our father's easy soul, unworthily 
Betraying to his anger, for thy lust 
Of wealth, the love and promise of two hearts. 
Poor Felisarda and Fernando now 
Wither at soul, and robb'd by thee of that 
Should cherish virtue, like to rifled pilgrims 
IMet on the way, and having told their story. 
And dropt their even tears for both their loss, 
Wander from one another. 

Fran. 'Tis not sure 
Fernando, but his passion (that obeys not 

* Like the reply of Manoah in Samson Agonistes: " Sad, but not saddest, 
the desolation of a hostile city." 
PAR ' II. 16 



226 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



The counsel of his reason) would accuse me : 

And if my father now (since spirits lose not 

Intelligence, but more active when they have 

Shook off their chains of flesh), would leave his dwelling, 

And visit this coarse* orb again ! my innocence 

Should dare the appeal, and make Fernando see 

His empty accusations. 

Fer. He that thrives 
By wicked art, has confidence to dress 
His action with simplicity and shapes, 
To cheat our credulous natures : 'tis my wonder 
Thou durst do so much injury, Francisco, 
As must provoke my justice to revenge. 
Yet wear no sword. 

Fran. I need no guard, I know 
Thou dar'st not kill me. 

Fer. Dare I not 1 

Fran. And name 
Thy cause : 'tis thy suspicion, not Francisco, 
Hath wrought thee high and passionate. To assure it j 
If you dare violate, I dare possess you 
With all my title to your land. 

Car. How is that ? 

Fran. Let him receive it at his peril. 

Fer. Ha! 

Fran. It was my father's act, not mine : he trembled 
To hear his curse alive ; what horror will 
His conscience feel, when he shall spurn his dust, 
And call the reverend shade from his blest seat 
To this bad world again, to walk and fright him ! 

Fer. Can this be more than a dream ? 

Fran. (Ghes him the will.) Sir, you may cancel it. But 
think withal, 
How you can answer him that's dead, when he 
Sliall charge your timorous soul for this contempt 
To nature and religion ; to break 

* Dirty Planet. — Sterne. 



LADY OF PLEASURE. 227 

His last bequest, and breath, that seal'd your blessings ! 

Car. These are fine fancies. 

Fer. (Returns the will.) Here ; and may it prosper, 
Where my good father meant it : I'm overcome ! 
Forgive me, and enjoy it. [/* going. 

His father Ramires (supposed dead) appears above, with 
Felisarda. 

Ram. Fernando, stay. 

Fer. Fla, my father and Felisarda : [Kneels. 

Are they both dead ! — I did not think 
To find thee in this pale society 
Of ghosts so soon. 

Fel. I am alive, Fernando : 
And Don "Ramires still thy living father. 

Fran. You may believe it, sir, I was of the council. 

Car. Men thought you dead. 

Ram. I lay within 
The kiiowledge of Francisco, and some few, 
By this device to advance my younger son 
To a marriage with Jacinta, sir, and try 
Fernando's piety, and his mistress' virtue : 
Wliicii I have found worth him, and my acceptance. 
With her I give thee what thy birth did challenge : 
Receive thy Felisarda. 

Fer. 'Tis a joy 
So flowing, it drowns all my faculties. 
My soul will not contain, I fear, but loose, 
And leave me in this extacy. 



THE LADY OF PLEASURE : A COMEDY. BY JAMES SHIRLEY. 

Sir Thomas Bornewell expostulates with his Lady on her extravagance 
and love of pleasure. 

Bornewell. Aretina, his lady. 
Are. I am angry with myself- 



228 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 



To be so miserably restrained in things, ^^ 

Wherein it doth concern your love and honor N^S 

To see me satisfied. V».3, 

Bor. In what, Aretina, 
Dost thou accuse me ? have I not obey'd 
All thy desires, against mine own opinion ; 
Quitted the country, and remov'd the hope 
Of our return, by sale of that fair lordship 
VVe liv'd in : chang'd a calm and retire life 
For this wild town, compos'd of noise and charge ? 

Are. What charge, more than is necessary 
For a lady of my birth and education ? 

Bor. I am not ignorant how much nobility 
Flows in your blood, your kinsmen great and powerful 
In the state ; but with this lose not your memory 
Of being my wife : I shall be studious. 
Madam, to give the dignity of your birth 
All the best ornaments which become my fortune ; 
But would not flatter it, to ruin both, • 

And be the fable of the town, to teach 
Other men wit by loss of mine, employ'd 
To serve your vast expences. 

Are. Am I then 
Brought in the balance I so, sir. 

Bor. Though you weigh 
Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest : 
And must take liberty to think, you have 
Obey'd no modest counsel to effect. 
Nay, study ways of pride and costly ceremony ; 
Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures, 
Of this Italian master, and that Dutchman's ; 
Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery 
Brought home on engines ; the superfluous plate 
Antick and novel ; vanities of tires, 
Four score pound suppers for my lord your kiasman^ 
Banquets for t' other lady, aunt, and cousins ; 
And perfumes, that exceed all ; train of servants, 
To stifle us at home, and show abroad 



LADY Oi'' PLEASURE. 229 

More rnotly than the French, or the Venetian, 

About your coacli, whose rude postilion 

Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers 

And tradesmen curse your choaking up their stalls, 

And common cries pursue your ladyship 

For hindering of their market. 

Are. Have you done, sir ? 

Bor. I could accuse the gaity of your wardrobe, 
And prodigal embroideries, under which. 
Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare 
Not show their own complexions ; your jewels. 
Able to burn out the spectators' eyes, 
And show like bonfires on you by the tapers : 
Something might here be spared, with safety of 
Your birth and honor, since the truest wealth 
Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers. 
I could urge something more. 

Are. Pray, do. I like 
Your homily of thrift. 

Bor. I could wish, madam, 
You would not game so much. 

Are. A gamester, too ! 

Bor. But are not come to that repentance yet. 
Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit ; 
You look not through the subtilty of cards, 
And mysteries of dice, nor can you save 
Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls, 
And keep your family by the j)recious income ; 
Nor do I wish you should ; my poorest servant 
Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire 
Purchas'd beneath my honor : you make play 
Not a pastime but a tyranny, and vex 
Yourself and my estate by 't. 

Are. Good, proceed. 

Bor. Another game you have, which consumes more 
Your fame than purse, your revels in the right. 
Your meetings, call'd the ball, to which appear, 
As to the € ^urt of pleasure, all your gallants 



230 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. 

And ladies, thither bound by a subpoena 

Of Venus and small 'Cupid's high displeasure : 

'Tis but the Family of Love, translated 

Into more costly sin ; there was a play on 't ; 

And had the poet not been brib'd to a modest 

Expression of your antic gambols in 't, 

Some darks had been discover'd ; and the deeds too j 

In time he may repent, and make some blush, 

To see the second part danc'd on the, stage. 

My thoughts acquit you for dishonoring me 

By any foul act ; but the virtuous know, 

'Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the 

Suspicions of our shame. 

Are. Have you concluded 
Your lecture ? 

Bor. I have done ; and howsoever 
My language may appear to you, it carries 
No other than my fair and just intent 
To your delights, without curb to their modest 
And noble freedom. 

Are. I '11 not be so tedious 
In my reply, but, without art or elegance, 
Assure you I keep still my first opinion ; 
And though you veil your avaricious meaning 
With handsome names of modesty and thrift, 
I find you would intrench and wound the liberty 
I was born with. Were my desires unprivileged 
By example ; while my judgment thought 'em fit, 
You ought not to oppose : but when the practice 
And tract of every honorable lady 
Authorize me, I take it great injustice 
To have my pleasures circurascrib'd and taught me. 

[This dialogue is in the very spirit of the recriminating scenes between Lord 
and Lady Townley in the Provoked Husband. It is difficult to believe, but 
it must have beer Vanbrugh's prototype.] 

END OF PART II. 



L£My 



